The Desperado
By Emerson Hough in 1905
The concept of energy and action, whether manifested for good or ill, is a cornerstone of the human experience. In our modern world, the intricate web of electrical wires that crisscross our cities presents a far greater potential for destruction than any outlaw who ever roamed the Wild West. Yet, we generally perceive electricity as a positive force, a vital component of our technological society. We strive to regulate it, to harness its power for constructive purposes, but its inherent volatility means that uncontrolled surges and unexpected failures will inevitably occur. This dynamic – the tension between control and chaos – is a timeless phenomenon, evident both in inanimate systems and in the actions of individuals. Each society, each geographical region, produces its own share of morally ambiguous figures, and, in time, others emerge to challenge and, perhaps, eliminate them, ostensibly for the greater good.
The spectrum of human character knows no ethnic or national boundaries. There are individuals capable of malevolence in every corner of the globe, from the Far East to the Americas, from the African continent to the European heartland. Yet, within this tapestry of human potential, some argue that the "white bad man" represents the most formidable archetype of the transgressor. And, among these, the Western white bad man occupies a place of particular notoriety. In the untamed expanse of the American West, a region often characterized by its fluid boundaries and transient nature, the white man, freed from the constraints of established society, could, and sometimes did, revert to primal instincts, echoing the behaviors attributed to ancient Teutonic and Gothic tribes.
The westward expansion of civilization across the North American continent is a complex narrative, fraught with contradictions. While the inherent tendencies toward lawlessness posed a significant challenge, the burgeoning empire of the West managed to flourish, propelled by another powerful force: the deeply ingrained Anglo-Saxon reverence for the rule of law. However, in the early, chaotic years of the West, the line separating the "bad man" from the "good man" who pursued him was often blurred. The town marshal, the supposed embodiment of law and order, was frequently chosen not for his adherence to legal principles but for his prowess in combat. The religion of progress and civilization held little sway over a man whose primary qualification was his ability to handle a gun.
In modern society, we collectively delegate our power to elected officials, representatives who, all too often, fail to truly represent our interests. We choose executive officers who seem more intent on fulfilling their own agendas than executing the will of the people. We fund vast police forces, entrusting them with the responsibility of protecting our safety, yet these forces often prove inadequate. Underlying all of this is the concept of undelegated personal right, a fundamental principle recognized in legal systems worldwide. This right, this inherent capacity for self-determination, resides within each of us. If a person lacks the inner fire to stand up for themselves, to act decisively in moments of crisis, they are, arguably, diminished as both an individual and a citizen.
Just as the individual possesses an undelegated right, so too does the social collective. We may employ politicians, but we often harbor disdain for them, while simultaneously admiring those who embody courage and martial skill. Society and its laws are rarely perfect, but rather represent a compromise, a pragmatic attempt to achieve a semblance of order and justice. Even the so-called "bad man" may be, in some respects, a product of his environment, a figure whose actions are shaped by the relative morality of a lawless frontier. This is not to excuse or romanticize the actions of a desperado, nor does it diminish our contempt for those who falsely claim that mantle. Instead, it is a call for understanding of the complex factors that contributed to the emergence of the archetypal figure.
So, who and what was the desperado? From a scientific and historical perspective, he was, in essence, no different from anyone else. He originated from every imaginable background, appearing in all shapes and sizes, all colors and complexions – just as cowards do. The only reliable method of identifying a desperado was to test him, to observe his actions under pressure. In time, the reputation of the desperado, whether accurate or exaggerated, became his calling card, preceding him wherever he went. A notorious "killer" from a Western town could become known throughout an entire state, or even across multiple states. His infamy might eclipse the reputations of accomplished statesmen and philanthropists.
What distinguished the desperado from his fellow man? What accounted for his superior skill with weapons? What is the true essence of courage? These questions demand a scientific examination. We possess the technology to measure the speed of thought and muscular reaction. We can record the varying rates of nerve impulse transmission in different individuals. If one were tasked with identifying a potential desperado, would they select someone who exhibited sluggish nerve responses? Unlikely. The capacity to become exceptionally quick and proficient with weapons could, in theory, be largely predicted through these types of scientific assessments. Of course, such technology was unavailable in the early West. Instead, they relied on trial and error, often with fatal consequences. There was rarely time to take the pulse of a suspected killer.
The ability to wield firearms with speed and precision was an essential attribute for the desperado, a skill honed through practice and often driven by a sense of fatalism. While practice was crucial, some individuals possessed an innate talent, a natural aptitude for violence that set them apart. Figures like Wild Bill Hickok, Joseph A. Slade, and Billy the Kid were born, not made. They possessed an inherent quickness of nerve and a capacity for deadly accuracy.
Furthermore, quickness of nerve action is often complemented by good digestion, a condition frequently fostered by a life of physical activity in the open air. However, this does not fully explain the phenomenon. A slower individual could still be brave. Sooner or later, if he entered the desperado lifestyle, whether as an outlaw or a lawman, he would inevitably fall victim to someone who possessed equal bravery and a fraction more speed with a gun.
Countless potentially bad men lived and died in obscurity, their latent talents never realized due to the circumstances of their lives. Had fate dealt them a different hand, they might have followed a darker path. Every war brings forth heroes from unexpected places, and every sudden crisis calls upon those uniquely suited to meet the challenge. Imagine a man who discovers his proficiency with weapons, who finds himself capable of controlling life and death from a distance. He takes pleasure in his growing skill, recognizing that the firearm, like the sword of ages past, extends and amplifies the human arm. The six-shooter, a quintessential invention of the American West, equalized power, enabling ordinary individuals to confront threats that would have been insurmountable otherwise. The user of weapons feels his power increased. As time passes, a moment of peril arises. There stands an enemy, a challenge. Perhaps it is a matter of male competition, driven by primal instincts. Perhaps it is a dispute over property, or an insult to one’s honor. Alcohol may also play a role, as it often did. Regardless of the cause, the situation escalates to a confrontation. The undelegated right of one individual clashes with that of another. The law is absent, or deemed inadequate. In a flash, the quicker set of nerves triggers the arm, and the weapon discharges. The victim falls, his own weapon drawn a fraction too late. The law may exonerate the killer, deeming it "self-defense." "It was an even break," his peers might say, though they may treat him with greater caution afterward.
"It was an even break," the killer tells himself, "him or me." But the mental image of the fallen victim may linger, a haunting reminder of the act. Some desperados have confessed that they committed a second killing in an attempt to erase the memory of the first.
But the cycle of violence often continues. Again, the nascent desperado proves to be the quicker. His self-confidence grows. This is a critical juncture in his life. He may choose to embrace the path of the desperado, or he may descend into a cheap imitation. In either case, the third killing solidifies his resolve. His courage and skill with weapons grant him an air of assurance in dangerous situations. He becomes a specialist in violence. Eventually, his own end arrives, and he is laid to rest.
The authentic desperado rarely conformed to the romanticized image portrayed in popular culture. The long-haired, blustering outlaw, spouting exaggerated dialect, is a fictional creation. The truly dangerous man was often quiet and reserved. When confronted with bluster and threats, the naturally brave man would experience a surge of exhilaration, a sense of calm focus that accompanies combat. One Western lawman recounted an incident in which he found himself in a dangerous situation, admitting that he initially wished to avoid the confrontation. But then, questioning his own courage, he experienced a sudden return of his former self, a feeling of calm and happiness. He quickly drew his weapon and pressed it against his opponent’s stomach, prompting an immediate apology. "I will give you $100 now," the man pleaded, "if you will tell me where you got that gun." The officer concluded, "I suppose I was a trifle quick for him."
The virtue of the "drop," the ability to draw and fire a weapon with lightning speed, was highly valued among desperados. However, some men clung to the belief that they were the fastest, even as they faced their demise. A well-known Western sheriff recounted a near-fatal encounter.
"Down on the edge of the Pecos Valley," he said, "a dozen miles below old Fort Sumner, there used to be a little saloon, and I once captured a man there. He came in from somewhere east of our territory and was wanted for murder. The reward offered for him was $1,200. Since he was a stranger, none of us knew him, but the sheriff’s descriptions said he had a freckled face, small hands, and a red spot in one eye. I heard that there was a new saloon keeper in there and thought he might be the man, so I took a deputy and went down one day to see about it."
"I told my deputy not to shoot until he saw me go after my gun. I didn’t want to hold the man up unless he was right, and I wanted to be sure about that identification mark in the eye. Now, when a bartender waits for you, he will never look you in the face until you raise your glass to drink. I told my deputy that we would order a few drinks and get a chance to look this fellow in the eye. When he looked up, I did look him in the eye, and there was the red spot!"
"I dropped my glass, jerked my gun, and covered him, but he wouldn’t put up his hands for a while. I didn’t want to kill him, but I thought I would have to. He kept both hands resting on the bar, and I knew he had a gun within three feet of him somewhere. At last, slowly, he gave in. I treated him well, as I always did a prisoner, and told him we would square it if we had made any mistake. We put irons on him and started with him in a wagon for Las Vegas. The next morning, out on the trail, he confessed everything to me. We turned him over, and later, he was tried and hung. I always considered him to be a pretty bad man. So far as a result was concerned, he might about as well have gone after his gun. I certainly thought that was what he was going to do. He had sand. I could see him stand there and balance the chances in his mind."
"Another of the nerviest men I ever ran up against," the same officer said reflectively, "I met when I was sheriff of Dona Ana County, New Mexico. I was in Las Cruces when there came in a sheriff from over in the Indian Nations looking for a fugitive who had broken out of a penitentiary after killing a guard and another man or so. This sheriff told me that the criminal in question was the most desperate man he had ever known and that no matter how we came on him, he would fight, and we would have to kill him before taking him. We located our man, who was cooking on a ranch six or eight miles from town. I told the sheriff to stay in town because the man would know him and would not know us. I had a Mexican deputy along with me."
"I put my deputy on one side of the house and went in. After washing his dishes, I found my man wiping his hands on a towel. I threw down on him, and he answered by smashing me in the face and then jumping through the window like a squirrel. I caught at him and tore the shirt off his back, but I didn’t stop him. Then I ran out of the door and caught him on the porch. I did not want to kill him, so I struck him over the head with the handcuffs I had ready for him. He dropped but came up like a flash and struck me so hard with his fist that I was badly jarred. We fought hammer and tongs for a while, but at length, he broke away, sprang through the door, and ran down the hall. He was going to his room after his gun. At that moment, my Mexican came in and, having no sentiment about it, just whaled away and shot him in the back, killing him on the spot. When they examined this man’s body, the doctors said he was the most perfect physical specimen they had ever seen. I can testify that he was a fighter. The sheriff offered me the reward, but I wouldn’t take any of it. I told him that I would be over in his country sometime and that I was sure he would do as much for me if I needed his help. I hope that if I do have to go after his particular sort of bad people, I’ll be lucky in getting the first start on my man. That man was as desperate a fighter as I ever saw or expected to see. Give a man of that stripe any kind of a show, and he’s going to kill you, that’s all. He knows that he has no chance under the law."
"Sometimes they got away with desperate chances, too, as many a peace officer has learned to his cost. The only way to go after such a man is to go prepared and give him no earthly show to get the best of you. I don’t mean that an officer ought to shoot down a man if he has a show to take his prisoner alive, but I do mean that he ought to remember that he may be pitted against a man who is just as brave as he is, and just as good with a gun, and who is fighting for his life."
Of course, such a man as this, whether confronted by an officer of the law or by another man against whom he has a personal grudge or who has in any way challenged him to the ordeal of weapons, was steadfast in his own belief that he was as brave as any and as quick with weapons. Thus, until at length he met his master in the law of human progress and civilization, he added to his list of victims or was added to the list of another of his own sort. For a very long time, a great region existed on the frontier that the law could not protect. Therefore, there was a good reason for a man’s learning to depend upon his courage, strength, and skill. He had nothing else to protect him, whether good or bad. In the typical days of the Western bad man, life was the individual’s property and not of society, and one man placed his life against another’s as the only way of solving challenging personal problems. Those days and those conditions brought out some of the boldest and most reckless men the earth had ever seen. Before we freely criticize them, we ought thoroughly to understand them.
Compiled and edited by Kathy Alexander/Legends of America, updated April 2024.
Go To Next Chapter – The Imitation Desperado
About the Author: Excerpted from The Story of the Outlaw; A Study of the Western Desperado, by Emerson Hough; Outing Publishing Company, New York, 1907. This story is not verbatim, as it has been edited for clerical errors and updated for the modern reader. Emerson Hough (1857–1923).was an author and journalist who wrote factional accounts and historical novels of life in the American West. His works helped establish the Western as a popular genre in literature and motion pictures. For years, Hough wrote the feature “Out-of-Doors” for the Saturday Evening Post and contributed to other major magazines.
Other Works by Emerson Hough:
The Story of the Outlaw – A Study of the Western Desperado – Entire Text
The Cattle Kings
The Cattle Trails
Cowboys on the American Frontier
The Frontier In History
The Indian Wars
Mines of Idaho & Montana
Pathways To the West
The Range of the American West