Captain Jack Crawford and California Joe

By Jim Poulton

Captain Jack Crawford. Credit: TriangleCRanch.com

John Wallace 'Captain Jack' Crawford was a legend of the old west. A cross between a mountain man, a scout, a soldier and a poet, Crawford (1847-1917) was one of the most popular performers in the west, and by the end of his life a genuine celebrity. Born in Ireland, but relocated to Minersville Pennsylvania at 14, Crawford served in the Civil War for the Pennsylvania Regulars. When the war ended, he made his way to the Dakota territory, where he was made Captain of the Black Hills Militia out of Custer City in 1875. A journalist with a flair for storytelling, Crawford began touring the western landscape in search of stories and inspiration.  

Partly because of his knowledge of the area, and partly because of his captivating personality, Captain Jack replaced Buffalo Bill Cody as Chief of Scouts for the 5th Cavalry on August 24, 1876, and later that year joined Cody's Wild West show. Unfortunately, their partnership ended within a year on a sour note: during a staged battle on horseback in Virginia City, Nevada, Crawford accidentally shot himself in the groin. He blaimed the injury on Cody's drunkenness, and the two parted ways intemperately.

Drunkenness was, in fact, an issue for Captain Jack. Two years after returning from the war, he had promised his dying mother that he would never drink - and he seems to have kept the promise. He was one of the very few men in the military who refused to drink, and "the only man on the frontier who could be entrusted to deliver an unopened bottle of whiskey, according to William “Buffalo Bill” Cody." (see the Black Hills Visitor for a complete biography of Crawford).

Advertisement for Buffalo Bill Cody's show. Credit: TrueArtWorks.com

Crawford relocated to the New Mexico Territory in 1879, and spent the remainder of his life scouting, acting, lecturing, ranching, mining, and working as a special government agent and for the Justice Department (investigating illegal liquor trafffic on Indian Reservations). To say he lived a full life is, obviously, an understatement.

On stage, Crawford performed poems and songs that he had written during his many travels. One of those was California Joe. Written in the year of Joe's death and published in Crawford's book, The Poet Scout: A Book of Song and Story, in 1879, Crawford claimed the story was true, and that Joe was shot by his own men. Of Joe, Crawford said: "He was a good, brave, generous man, and his only fault was liquor." 

Below is a recording of California Joe, sung by Lum Wilson "Bill" Jackson, made in 1941 at the Arvin FSA (Farm Security Administration) Camp south of Bakersfield California. Camps like Arvin were built by the FSA to house migrant workers during the Great Depression. The recording is part of the Voices from the Dust Bowl: The Charles L. Todd and Robert Sonkin Migrant Worker Collection, a collection of recordings, photographs and manuscripts documenting life in FSA camps in California in 1940 and 1941. The collection has recently been released to the public by the Library of Congress.

Charles Todd recording in 1941. Credit: Library of Congress

Musicians, Migrant labor camp, El Rio, CA. Credit: Library of Congress

And here are Captain Jack's original lyrics:

Well, mates, I don t like stories, Nor am I going to act 

A part around this camp-fire That ain't a truthful fact.
So fill your pipes and listen, I'll tell you—let me see, 

I think it was in fifty, From that till sixty-three.

You've all heard tell of Bridger, I used to run with Jim,
And many a hard day's scouting I've done 'longside of him. 

Well, once, near old Fort Reno, A trapper used to dwell; 

We called him old Pap Reynolds — The scouts all knew him well.

Fort Reno, near El Reno Oklahoma. Credit: Examiner.com

One night the Spring of fifty We camped on Powder river, 

We killed a calf of buffalo, And cooked a slice of liver: 

While eating, quite contented, We heard three shots or four 

Put out the fire and listened, Then heard a dozen more.

We knew that old man Reynolds Had moved his traps up here;
So, picking up our rifles And fixing on our gear, 

We mounted quick as lightnin', To save was our desire. 

Too late; the painted heathens Had set the house on fire.

We tied our horses quickly, And waded up the stream;
While close beside the water I heard a muffled scream.
And there among the bushes A little girl did lie.
I picked her up and whispered: "I'll save you, or I'll die!"

Lord, what a ride! old Bridger, He covered my retreat.
Sometimes the child would whisper, In voice so low and sweet: 

"Poor papa, God will take him To mamma up above; 

There's no one left to love me—There s no one left to love."

The little one was thirteen, And I was twenty-two. 

Said I: "I'll be your father, And love you just as true. 

She nestled to my bosom, Her hazel eyes, so bright,
Looked up and made me happy, Though close pursued that night.

A month had passed, and Maggie (We called her Hazel Eye),
In truth, was going to leave me— Was going to say "good-bye." 

Her uncle, mad Jack Reynolds—Reported long since dead— 

Had come to claim my angel, His brother's child, he said.

What could I say? We parted. Mad Jack was growing old;
I handed him a bank-note And all I had in gold.

They rode away at sunrise, I went a mile or two, 

And, parting, said: "We'll meet again—May God watch over you."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Beside a laughing, dancing brook, A little cabin stood,
As, weary with a long day's scout, I spied it in the wood.
A pretty valley stretched beyond, The mountains towered above, 

While near the willow bank I heard The cooing of a dove.

'Twas one grand panorama, The brook was plainly seen, 

Like a long thread of silver In a cloth of lovely green. 

The laughter of the waters, The cooing of the dove,
Was like some painted picture— Some well-told tale of love.

While drinking in the grandeur, And resting in my saddle, 

I heard a gentle ripple Like the dipping of a paddle. 

I turned toward the eddy A strange sight met my view: 

A maiden, with her rifle, In a little bark canoe.

She stood up in the centre, The rifle to her eye; 

I thought (just for a second) My time had come to die. 

I doffed my hat and told her (If it was all the same)
To drop her little shooter, For I was not her game.

She dropped the deadly weapon, And leaped from the canoe. 

Said she: " I beg your pardon, I thought you were a Sioux;
Your long hair and your buckskin Looked warrior-like and rough;
My bead was spoiled by sunshine, Or I'd killed you, sure enough."

"Perhaps it had been better You dropped me then," said I;
For surely such an angel Would bear me to the sky."
She blushed and dropped her eyelids, Her cheeks were crimson red;
One half-shy glance she gave me, And then hung down her head.

I took her little hand in mine— She wondered what I meant, 

And yet she drew it not away, But rather seemed content. 

We sat upon the mossy bank Her eyes began to fill
The brook was rippling at our feet, The dove was cooing still.

I smoothed her golden tresses, Her eyes looked up in mine,
She seemed in doubt then whispered "Tis such a long, long time
Strong arms were thrown around me I'll save you, or I'll die."
I clasped her to my bosom My long-lost Hazel Eye.

The rapture of that moment Was almost heaven to me. 

I kissed her 'mid her tear-drops, Her innocence and glee.
Her heart near mine was beating, While sobbingly she said: 

"My dear, my brave preserver, They told me you were dead.

"But, oh! those parting words, Joe, Have never left my mind. 

You said: We ll meet again, Mag, Then rode off like the wind.
And, oh! how I have prayed, Joe, For you, who saved my life, 

That God would send an angel To guard you through all strife.

"And he who claimed me from you, My uncle, good and true—
Now sick in yonder cabin Has talked so much of you. 

If Joe were living, darling, He said to me last night, 

He would care for Maggie When God puts out my light."

We found the old man sleeping. "Hush ! Maggie, let him rest." 

The sun was slowly sinking In the far-off glowing west; 

And, though we talked in whispers, He opened wide his eyes. 

"A dream— a dream!" he murmured, "Alas! a dream of lies!"

She drifted like a shadow To where the old man lay. 

"You had a dream, dear uncle Another dream to-day?" 

"Oh, yes; I saw an angel, As pure as mountain snow,
And near her, at my bed-side, Stood California Joe."

"I'm sure I'm not an angel, Dear uncle, that you know; 

These arms are brown, my hands, too My face is not like snow. 

Now, listen, while I tell you, For I have news to cheer, 

And Hazel Eye is happy, For Joe is truly here."

And when, a few days after, The old man said to me: 

Joe, boy, she ar' a angel, An' good as angels be.
For three long months she's hunted An' trapped an' nursed me, too;
God bless ye, boy! I believe it— She s safe along wi' you."

The sun was slowly sinking When Mag (my wife) and I
Came riding through the valley, The tear-drops in her eye. 

"One year ago to-day, Joe— I see the mossy grave— 

We laid him 'neath the daisies, My uncle, good and brave."

And, comrades, every Spring-time Was sure to find me there—
A something in that valley Was always fresh and fair. 

Our loves were newly kindled While sitting by the stream, 

Where two hearts were united In love's sweet, happy dream.