Wild West Podcast

Send us a textCold bites, a promise binds, and a furnace roars—this is the Yukon at human scale. We start with a candid look at why facing reality beats denial, then follow the trail into Robert Service’s world, where men who moil for gold wrestle with fear, loyalty, and the math of survival. Our reading of The Cremation of Sam McGee sets the pace: a vow made on a brutal Christmas run, a body lashed to a sleigh, and a punchline so warm it melts the dread.We unpack the craft that makes this ballad unforgettable. The rolling meter pulls like a dog team, the imagery flips from ice-burn to furnace blaze, and the narrative beats keep tension taut until humor snaps it. Along the way, we trace Service’s journey from British Columbia to Whitehorse, and the Gold Rush context that fed his voice—rough camps, frozen rivers, and the stern code that says a promise made is a debt unpaid. The poem’s twist—Sam smiling in the heat—lands as both macabre and merciful, reminding us that stories help carry loads the trail alone ca

Send us a textA cold morning, a fortified town, and a scaffold placed just out of earshot—Charleston, Virginia tried to choreograph John Brown’s end and, with it, the story the country would remember. What they could not contain was a single handwritten note that slipped past the rope and into the bloodstream of a nation already splitting at the seams.We walk the final hours with four witnesses whose perspectives refract the moment: Thomas J. Jackson, the meticulous VMI professor whose faith and discipline frame the state’s show of force; Edmund Ruffin, the fire-eater who turns pikes into propaganda and sees opportunity in the gallows; David Hunter Strother, the conflicted journalist caught between honesty and editorial fear; and a young John Wilkes Booth, reading the scene as theater and quietly rehearsing a darker role. Alongside them, Brown tends his will, thanks his jailer, hands coins to his men, and chooses silence over spectacle—saving his last words for paper, not the crowd.The procession becomes publ

Send us a textA single word—fire—ripped through a quiet winter night and changed Dodge City forever. We travel back to late 1885 as flames burst from the Junction Saloon, raced down Front Street, and turned landmark businesses into a corridor of embers. With no pressurized water system and winter winds pushing the blaze, neighbors hacked at ice for bucket brigades while heat made even brick buildings fail. The Long Branch Saloon, Delmonico’s, Zinnerman’s hardware, and more fell in hours, and embers leapt the tracks to ignite warehouses and strain the town’s last defenses.Amid chaos, Marshal Bill Tilghman and the fire brigade made a stark choice: blast a firebreak with gunpowder to stop the advance. By dawn, roughly 14 businesses were gone and losses neared $150,000—staggering in 1885. Yet the ashes carried a blueprint. The second major fire of that year forced Dodge City to abandon the fragile speed of wood construction and invest in brick, stone, and a modern waterworks. What began as catastrophe became a ci

Send us a textA coffin rattles into a mining camp and turns out to be a piano—an unlikely miracle for a saloon that runs on cards, noise, and stubborn pride. We set the scene in a winter-struck gulch where 300 miners live by the hour and try not to think about the lives they left behind. Goskin, the gambler who owns the hall, wants one thing for Christmas: someone brave enough to bring that silent instrument to life.What follows is a story about fear, longing, and the strange ways grace finds a way in. A half-frozen stranger steps out of the storm, warms his hands by the fire, and admits he used to play. When he touches the keys, the room stops moving. Imperfect chords swell into old ballads and familiar carols that carry the men back to apple blossoms, Scottish heather, and candlelit aisles. Even the toughest faces fold when Home Sweet Home lands. The gambling halts, glasses lower, and hardened men drift out to write letters they’ve owed for years.Then comes the twist that only the frontier could provide. Th

Send us a textSnow that bites, winds that snap, and a cabin lit by a single candle—yet the room still fills with carols and the smell of plum pudding. We journey across the Old West to uncover how pioneers forged the Christmas we recognize today, transforming scarcity into ritual and distance into community. From homestead kitchens humming weeks in advance to stockings hung by a hard‑won fire, we explore the customs that stitched a shaken nation back together after the Civil War and blossomed into a national holiday by 1870.We share first‑hand accounts that feel close to the skin: a family pushing through storms to reach a new life in Oregon Territory, neighbors snowshoeing through four feet of powder for a frontier feast, and Dodge City’s Christmas Eve council where civic ambition briefly overshadowed goodwill. These vignettes reveal the texture of the season on the prairie—homemade ornaments from evergreens and ribbon, popcorn garlands, cookie‑dough keepsakes, and gifts carved, knitted, and stitched over mo

Send us a textForget the postcard version of Dodge City. We open the door to the Great Western Hotel and step into a town intent on trading dust for dignity, noise for order, and short-term profits for a longer arc of respectability. The surprise is in the name itself: Great Western wasn’t a nod to cattle drives; it was a bid to borrow the prestige of Brunel’s railway and steamship, the Victorian shorthand for speed, reliability, and modern life. That branding choice tells us more about ambition on the plains than any staged gunfight ever could.We follow the transformation from the unpolished Western House to a hotel with plate glass, private rooms, and a no-whiskey policy under Dr. Samuel Galland, a German immigrant who believed Dodge City could be sober and civilized. Along the way, we separate trail reality from tourist memory: drovers called it the Western or the Dodge City Trail, while the phrase Great Western Trail arrived decades later through scholarship and heritage markers that retconned the landsca

Send us a textA single whistle split the prairie air—and with it, the future of two rival towns. We revisit November 25, 1887, when the Arkansas, Kansas, and Colorado Railroad rolled into Ford, Kansas and turned isolation into opportunity, commerce into momentum, and a bitter rivalry into a clear verdict. What looks like a short stretch of track becomes a story about how infrastructure decides who thrives, who moves, and who fades from the map.We set the stage with Dodge City’s fifteen-year boom as a cattle and railroad capital, then zoom into the quieter but consequential struggles of southern Ford County’s farmers. Without rail access, every mile to market was risk: spoilage, delays, and thin margins. The new line changed that overnight. With Ford connected to Dodge City and eastern markets, exports grew, schedules stabilized, and investment finally made sense. The town stepped into a broader economy where grain, livestock, and goods could move with dependable speed.The rivalry with Ryansville brings the st

Send us a textA quiet click in a digital archive set off a bigger question: how did a tidy tale about the  “Western Trail” in 1873 outrun the dusty, documented truth of 1874? We follow the breadcrumb trail from a glossy magazine headline to the rail-choked streets of Dodge City, where buffalo hides, not longhorns, drove the economy. From there, we trace John T. Lytle’s government contract to feed the Sioux, the mapped river crossings, and the August 1, 1874 deadline that defined the first verified drive.Along the way, we meet J. Frank Dobie—ranch-born, campus-bound, and unapologetically devoted to story over footnote. Dobie prized living voices more than ledgers, and he found a perfect partner in Frank Collinson, an Englishman turned cowboy who wrote his memories decades after the fact. Collinson likely helped gather cattle in late 1873 and later fused that groundwork with the 1874 trailblazing into one clean narrative. It’s a classic compression: a roundup becomes a “first drive,” and a modern brand name—“Gr

Send us a textA trail’s name shouldn’t be a marketing plan, yet that’s exactly how the West’s most traveled cattle route got mislabeled. We follow the evidence from a fresh historiographical review back to 1874, when John T. Lytle cut a new path north after the Chisholm route jammed, and forward to the moment Dodge City exploded into the greatest cattle market on earth. Along the way, we sit with the drovers’ own words—the functional names they used at the time—and weigh them against monuments, brochures, and a 1960s academic phrase that grew into a modern myth.We break down how the Western Trail took shape: the 7D steers headed for the Red Cloud Agency, the push through Cow Gap, and the pivot to the Santa Fe railhead at Dodge. Then we zoom out to the forces that ended the era—barbed wire tightening across the plains and Kansas quarantine laws that shut the gate on Texas herds. The numbers are staggering: millions of cattle and horses moved along this single route, reshaping the national diet and remaking a f

Send us a textA cold wind skims the Potomac, the town sleeps, and nineteen men step toward a federal armory believing they can change the course of a nation. We pull you inside the hour-by-hour chaos of Harper’s Ferry—bridges taken in the dark, telegraph alarms racing east, hostages herded into a small engine house, and a plan that tightens into a steel trap. No tidy hindsight, just the immediacy of crackling dispatches and the raw choices that turned a local raid into a national reckoning.We trace John Brown’s long arc from Calvinist vows to Kansas bloodshed, and the radical choice to build an integrated force with a provisional constitution promising full equality. Harper’s Ferry offered rail lines, rivers, and a mountain corridor for guerrilla war—and it offered symbolism Brown could not resist. He seized Colonel Lewis Washington and lifted the sword of the first president, claiming the Revolution’s legacy for abolition even as the town armed itself from windows and alleyways. The first man to die was Hayw

Send us a textHalloween in Dodge City is posted once a year during the month of October. The podcast tells the story of some of the characters who lived in Dodge City, Kansas, during the early frontier days. The story takes place on October 31, when a fictitious character named Luke McGlue visits a resting site known as Boot Hill. While waiting to administer the Kelly Cure, Luke visits and tells the stories of individual characters buried at Boot Hill. These long-lost souls include Lizzy Palmer, a local prostitute, McGill, who is tracked down and killed by James Hanrahn, and the shooting of Essington, a carpenter who built the first hotel in Dodge City. But the most infamous story told here is about Billy Brooks, the first unofficial marshal of Dodge City.  To learn more about the Luke McGlue stories you can visit The Machiavellian of Dodge City.Support the showIf you'd like to buy one or more of our fully illustrated dime novel publications, you can click the link I've included.

Send us a textThe prairie doesn’t forget—and it won’t let us forget either. We follow a chilling thread from a 96-mile irrigation scheme called the Eureka Canal to a vanished laborer whose story was buried in snow, silence, and someone else’s balance sheet. What begins as a Halloween ghost story widens into a study of hubris, place, and the quiet power of naming the lost.We unpack Asa T. Soule’s rise from hop bitters fortune to Western empire building, and how the canal promised a new Eden but ran headlong into the Arkansas River’s fickle flow, upstream diversions, and soils that drank hope dry. Cimarron’s resistance to Soule’s political muscle frames the stakes: when capital treats geography and democracy as obstacles, the land and its people push back. Alongside the spectral sightings at the ditch, we track records, letters, and courthouse files to a name—Silas Croft—whose ruined farm in New York and final steps into the 1886 blizzard turn rumor into history.When the storm returns and a haunted rage rattles

Send us a textThe wind on the Kansas plains doesn’t just rattle old storefronts; it carries the names we’ve let disappear. We retrace the final patrol of City Marshal Ed Masterson, shot along Dodge City’s infamous deadline in 1878, and follow the paper-thin trail of his remains from Fort Dodge to the overgrown ruins of Prairie Grove to the tidy rows of Maple Grove. What starts as a gripping frontier shootout turns into a forensic hunt for a missing grave, a meditation on how towns expand, and a reckoning with what gets erased when progress moves faster than memory.Together we navigate saloon-lit streets, the split-second decision that may or may not have dropped Jack Wagner, and the ache of not knowing whether Ed’s last act delivered justice or if Bat Masterson’s gun wrote the final line. Along the way we listen to the whispers of other displaced souls—the card sharp shuffled like a deck of cards, the cowboy lost in the paperwork, the woman buried beneath a schoolhouse—and confront a stark civic question: wha

Send us a textA contract to feed a frontier post shouldn’t have ended at a river cave, but the Pecos has a way of bending plans. We head out with Oliver Loving and W.J. Wilson on a night-run mission to Fort Sumner that turns into a standoff against a swelling war party, where ground, grit, and a few feet of brush decide the line between life and legend. When a parley sign flickers on the plains and a hidden shot rips through Loving’s wrist and side, the story snaps from strategy to survival, and the cave on the bluff becomes a cramped theater where fear, fever, and resolve fight for the lead.From there, the path forks. Wilson crawls into the night to fetch river water in his boots, then makes the hardest choice a partner can make: leave a wounded friend to swim for help. He slips down the Pecos past a mounted sentinel, abandons his rifle to the sandy current, and staggers barefoot across a country of thorns with a scavenged TP pole, waking to wolves every time sleep threatens. Starved and sunburned, he reache

Send us a textA limestone mansion built to defy the prairie became a vessel for sorrow—and then a sanctuary. We take you inside Dodge City’s Home of Stone, from John Mueller’s audacious rise and the black walnut staircase that flaunted prosperity, to the winter they called the White Death that buried a cattle empire under ice. Amid ruin, another story took hold: Caroline’s quiet grief, a nursery that never warmed, a rocking chair that swayed without wind, and a whisper that sounded like a child who didn’t get to grow up.When the Schmidts moved in, the house learned new rhythms—electric light, hot bread, children’s laughter—until a visiting boy tumbled down the staircase and said another child pushed him. Instead of fleeing, Elizabeth Schmidt opened the town’s memory, reading county ledgers and finding the Mueller graves that numbers can’t account for. Elma saw the silent boy in the wavering lamplight, pointing to the nursery, to his heart, and out across the endless plains—a pantomime of loss that didn’t need

Send us a textNovember 29, 1864 dawned cold on the Colorado plains as Cheyenne and Arapaho families slept peacefully under an American flag—a gift promising protection. By nightfall, over 200 Native Americans lay dead in what would become one of the most shameful episodes in American history.The Sand Creek Massacre didn't happen in isolation. It grew from a toxic brew of broken treaties, gold rush fever, and political ambition. Once respected Cheyenne and Arapaho territories, recognized in the 1851 Treaty of Fort Laramie, were systematically stripped away as miners and settlers poured into Colorado. When tribes resisted this invasion, territorial officials seized their opportunity. Governor John Evans issued proclamations essentially authorizing the killing of any Native Americans, while Colonel John Chivington—a Methodist minister with political aspirations—assembled a regiment specifically to confront the "Indian problem."What makes this story particularly heartbreaking is that Chief Black Ke

Send us a textGold rushes change landscapes—both physical and human. When 100,000 settlers poured into Colorado Territory following the 1858 discovery of gold, they unknowingly set in motion a chain of events that would culminate in one of America's most controversial military actions. The newcomers' wagons followed water sources critical to both buffalo herds and the nomadic Plains Indians who depended on them for survival. As these resources vanished, tensions escalated into violence.Historian Jeff Broome takes us deep into the complexities of the Sand Creek Massacre, challenging simplified narratives through meticulous primary source research. His account traces the growing conflict through 1864—from the killing of Cheyenne Chief Lean Bear to the Hungate family murders to the failed Camp Weld peace conference. Each incident represents a thread in a complex tapestry of cultural misunderstanding, economic pressure, and political maneuvering.What makes Broome's perspective particularly valuable

Send us a textCharlie Bassett may be the most important Wild West lawman you've never heard of. Before Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson became household names, they wore their first badges under his leadership in Dodge City, Kansas—a place so notoriously lawless it earned the nickname "the wickedest little town in America."Born in Massachusetts in 1847, Bassett's journey took him from Civil War battlefields to the heart of frontier chaos. Standing only five feet four inches tall, what he lacked in physical stature he more than compensated for with quiet resolve and unwavering integrity. As Dodge City's first Marshal and Ford County's first Sheriff, he faced down the wildest elements of the American frontier—rampaging cowboys, professional gamblers, and ruthless outlaws—while establishing the foundations of law and order that would allow civilization to take root.Unlike his more famous protégés, Bassett didn't build his reputation on spectacular gunfights or self-promotion. His a

Send us a textThe tangled web of myth and reality surrounding Dutch Henry Borne reveals a captivating window into the American frontier experience. Our exploration of this enigmatic outlaw's life continues as we examine the controversial claims and counterclaims about one of the West's most fascinating characters.Dutch Henry's transformation from military scout to notorious criminal traverses the shifting moral landscape of the frontier. Beginning his Western career in 1867 as a scout for Custer's 7th Cavalry, Borne witnessed the brutality of the Ouachita Massacre in 1868, which seemingly triggered his disillusionment with military service. By 1871, he had staked a claim in Kansas and ventured to Colorado for buffalo hunting. After suffering an attack by Cheyenne warriors and facing accusations of instigating the conflict, Bourne's sense of injustice drove him to steal Army mules and the commandant's horse, vowing revenge and setting him on a path toward outlaw status.The most fa

Send us a textSome monsters aren't fiction – they're buried in Dodge City Cemetery beneath stones that read "beloved husband and father."The story of Print Olive might be the most shocking true tale we've covered on Whiskey and Westerns. While sipping Bullet Bourbon (a fitting choice given Print's remarkable ability to absorb lead throughout his violent career), we unraveled the brutal history of a man whose sadistic tendencies would make even fictional villains seem tame.Print began as a Texas cattle baron in the post-Civil War era, accumulating wealth by gathering "maverick" cattle – a term derived from Samuel Maverick, who famously refused to brand his herds. But Print's legacy wasn't built on business acumen alone. His reputation for horrific violence preceded him across the frontier. He once tied suspected rustlers to trees, wrapped them in freshly skinned wet cowhides, and watched as the rawhide slowly dried and crushed them to death in the hot Texas sun