Kid Curry Bunks With
‘The Kid’
By Ed Keenan, author and cowboy poet

During the late 1880’s and 90’s, the infamous but famous Kid Curry had a reputation for being the meanest and badest of all the notorious outlaws of the old west.

He is famous for having been part of the “Wild Bunch” and riding with Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. He is infamous for being a horse thief, a cattle rustler, a bank robber, a deadly gunslinger, a jail-breaker and a murderer of Sheriffs and lawmen. An educated man, he was smart and clever. The result was that Kid Curry spent a good deal of his young life hiding from the law by outrunning and outsmarting many posses. He felt strongly that he was a victim of injustice, so in his mind he felt that he was driven to be a desperado. That seems to be one reason why he had such a terribly vengeful spirit. This real or perceived injustice resulted in his gaining a reputation of being the most dangerous and feared gunmen of the Old West.

The saga of Kid Curry along with the “Wild Bunch” has been well reported on but here is a little known and unique sidebar to add to all those stories.

Many years ago I found a few pages of a booklet with this tale written in it. It was under the floor boards of an old dilapidated house that had been flooded. The house was near the Pechanga Indian Reservation not far from Temecula, California. The water-damaged booklet was curled and had no cover. It was stained with mud, but I was able to separate the pages. Quickly I became intrigued by what I was able to read. With a little filling-in-the-blanks, here is the crux of the story as best I could decipher it. “Kid Curry’s” name was printed as “Currey.”

Now… just imagine a 14-year-old boy crossing paths with Kid Currey!  Imagine this kid meeting up with the meanest, badest, outlaw of all time and even bunking with him!

This unusual personal story was told by an old Montana cowboy by the name of Besler. At the time, in 1963, he was 79 years old. It seems he had retired to California, and just before his death he revealed this fascinating tale, one that he had kept secret for about 65 years. Here’s what he related:

“In the 1898 when I was a fourteen-year-old boy helping my father in his blacksmith shop in the town of Chinook, Montana, a man came in out of a storm. He was a stranger so I paid him no mind until I heard my Dad call him Currey. He had a wagon wheel he wanted fixed. Dad said, “We’ll have it ready by noon tomorrow, Kid.”

When he left he looked back at me.  He had gray eyes and one was cocked strangely outward. He had a black moustache and black smooth hair and a swarthy complexion.

So I said to my father, “is that the famous Kid Currey?” — “Notorious, son, not famous,” he said.

“He sure don’t look like an outlaw to me,” I said.

“Maybe he don’t look bad, but if what they say about him is true…he ain’t as good as he looks.” Dad explained: “Currey is a well-educated man and has the name of being honest and fair in all his dealings.  But he is still an outlaw and a wanted man.”

“Why don’t they take him?”  Dad smiled. Shaking his head he replied: “His rep, I suppose—lightning fast on the draw and deadly accurate.”

That’s the first time I met Kid Currey. Little did I think that someday I would meet him again under much different circumstances.

I was born in 1884 on an Indian Reservation in north-central Montana Territory. My parents and grandparents were early day pioneers having come up the Missouri River and then one hundred miles inland by bull train to Ft. Belknap. Granddad was appointed an Indian Agent during the presidency of Benjamin B. Hayes so that was long before the West was tamed.  We eventually homesteaded some open land in the area

The town of Chinook developed when the Great Northern Railroad came in. It is here that my father opened a blacksmith shop.  Gold was found close by and that started the towns Landusky, named for Pike Landusky, and Zartamn, after Pete Zartman. All sorts of characters and prospectors poured in to the area. Among them was, the Logan brothers, Harvey, Johnny and Lonnie. Harvey had several aliases but was locally known as “Kid Currey.” It seems he was also known in Wyoming and Montana and was said to be a member of the Butch Cassidy and Harry Longbraugh outlaw gang— the “Wild Bunch.”

In the 1880’s the Kid bought a small ranch in these parts. It wasn’t long before there was disputes and fights over mining claims, land holdings and cattle rustling. About then trouble started between the Currey boys and Pike Landusky. As a result Kid Currey left the ranch and was gone for a number of years.

One day, after returning, he was riding in to the town of Landusky and spotted his brothers horse tied up at the hitch-rack in front of Pike’s Saloon. A loud commotion was going on inside. Kid Currey dropped down off his horse, hitched it and went in. He saw his brother being beaten up by Landusky and his friends. The Kid jumped in to the fight and knocked Pike Landusky to the floor. As he hit the floor, Pike reached for his gun, but The Kid beat him to the draw and Pike was shot dead. Kid Currey and his brother, slowly, backed out of the Saloon and rode back to the ranch.

Everyone knew that the shooting was a case of self-defense, but The Kid figured that he didn’t have a chance in hell against Pike’s witnesses at any hearing. He was not about to be hanged for a murder he did not commit so he disappeared again. After his disappearance, there were several train robberies in the surrounding states and quite naturally, he was thought to be the one to blame.

After the killing of Pike Landusky and disappearance of Kid Currey there didn’t seem to much effort in capturing him. The thought was that the Landusky Clan would eventually settle the score.

On July 3, 1901, the west-bound Great Northern was held up not far from Chinook. There was so much powder used to blow up the safe that it blew the roof off the rail car. I saw that train as it headed west and passed through Chinook, on the 4th of July.

That started a serious effort to catch the bandits but with no success. Ranchers who might somehow talk were being intimidated and some were even killed. Kid Currey and his gang were being blamed, maybe justly so.  But then again, it might have been others using the tense situation and the atmosphere of fear to settle old scores. After all, who better to blame than Kid Currey?

Then came a flurry of confusing reports. It was said that Kid Currey had been caught in Knoxville, Tennessee and escaped and had robbed a train in Parachute, Colorado. And then it was said that he killed himself in a shootout in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. That seemed to be the end of the story, but later it was reported that when he was near capture in a cornfield in Illinois, he turned his gun on himself. Few old timers believed that he would ever turn his gun on himself under any circumstances.

Dates of train robberies, gun battles, sightings and the demise of Kid Currey conflicted. Eventually the law declared that Kid Currey was dead and that a positive ID had been made. This closed the case of Kid Currey as far as the law was concerned, but not to the old timers… they were not convinced.

It was about a year later in the early spring, my father and I were doing some work at our West Fork place. One evening after dinner, the dog began to bark. “Someone’s comin’,” Dad said.

I stepped to the door of our cabin to take a look. Near the barn, coming in from the west, was a rider on a tall black horse. As he approached, I called the dog off, and as was customary, I said:

 “Howdy, stranger.  Get down and count yer’ stirrup.”

 “Howdy.  Don’t mind if I do,” was the stranger’s reply.

Swinging down off his horse, he dropped the reins and came to the door. When he stepped in to the light of the kerosene lamp in our cabin, my Dad stood up and I saw a look of startled surprise on his face. With a smile the stranger extended his hand to my father and said: “Well, I’ll be dammed, if it ain’t Andrew!  Now ain’t this some surprise.”

Dad immediately asked: “How about some grub? Eaten lately?”

 “Nope, not since early morning.”

 Dad went to the stove and put some wood in it. “We’ll soon fix that.” “Then, you’ll spend the night with us won’t you? You’re sure welcome.”

 “Well, I reckon my horse is plenty tired,” the man said. It’s been a long day, so I’ll accept your hospitality. I can sleep in the barn as well as not.”

 “No need of that. Plenty of bunk room right here,” Dad assured him. “Son, take the man’s horse to the barn and take care of.”

I took the big black to the barn, pulled the saddle and blanket off and rubbed and brushed him down. I put out some oats and hay and he switched his tail in satisfaction.

When I got back Dad was serving up a meal of ham and eggs, spuds, beans, biscuits and coffee to our guest. He had washed up and combed his hair back nice and slick. After dinner they rolled some smokes and jawed ’till about eleven o’clock. The stranger asked many questions as to the whereabouts and welfare of one old-timer after another.  Not once did Dad ever address him by name, even though the stranger called my Dad by his name, Andrew.

Finally we blew the lamp out and crawled in the sack.  In a short time both men were snoring. I had no sense of fear but I couldn’t sleep for the longest time. I kept thinking, even though he is supposed to be dead, this must be Kid Currey. What confused me is that he now had long black hair and a heavy black beard that covered his face well. But, one thing I remembered was his eyes.

After breakfast the next morning the stranger asked some questions about the road north, and thanked us for our hospitality. He rode away thanking us again. Dad had never asked him where he came from or where he was going.

After a long pause Dad turned to me and asked: “Do you have any idea who that feller was?”

Yes, I think so. Only if it’s who I think it is, he’s supposed to be dead.”

With a faint smile, he said: “Yes, son you’re right. That’s the notorious Kid Currey.” Then pointing his finger at me sternly, he says: “Nobody stayed here last night, you understand?  Don’t you ever forget that! It’s against my principles, but in this case, it’s best to leave sleeping dogs lie. Remember what the good book says: ‘There is a time to speak and a time to keep quiet.’ Beside, we want to live a little longer.”

Reliable sources reported that he ended up in South America. I was just a kid back then but I never forgot that experience and neither did I forget what my Dad sternly told me. “There is a time to speak and a time to keep quiet.” I am an old man now and all others involved are dead and gone. So, I feel that at last, I can tell about the night when Kid Currey and I bunked together in a log cabin.

Ed Keenan © 2007