There was a time in California when an outlaw might be notorious as
the scourge of the county, stealing horses and robbing stagecoaches, but he might also earn fame for displaying style, manners, and class while professionally going through the motions of his chosen profession. There was a time when a man’s acquisitive eye for an excellent horse might lead to an eager chase by officers of the law; yet that same man’s longing eye for a lovely woman would often lead to those ladies gazing upon him just as eagerly. There was a time when a man could be a horse thief by day and be a man who was known for his elegant dancing that same evening. Such a man was John Allen, otherwise known as Sheet Iron Jack. Allen came to California in the 1860’s, migrating from his New York home after a stint in the army. He was in his twenties and showed no lust whatsoever for the yellow metal which had been bringing so many Easterners to California for the past decade and a half. Instead he opened a barber shop and entertained his customers with ‘lively and humorous speech’ as he shaved their faces and trimmed their long hair. After work he would be a favorite personality in the bar with his endless supply of stories, and if he had any faults at all it was that he sometimes drank a bit too much, and maybe talked a little too much as well. John spent his money freely, and it was sometimes remarked upon that he seemed to have pockets that were deeper than those of a mere barber should have been. But that was merely idle curiosity as Jack had never been linked to anything of an even slightly unlawful nature. If anyone did harbor suspicions about the source of his finances they were soon charmed out of it by his easy manner and quick wit. And if those weren’t enough, all such thoughts were bound to be forgotten when John picked up his guitar and began to sing. His fingers danced across the strings as his deep baritone voice sang plaintive Mexican ballads – all the more impressive as John had lost one finger while serving in the military. Cutting hair, shaving beards, playing guitar, singing soulful songs; John Allen was just a great guy to have around. Until he got caught stealing horses, that is. Then everyone knew where all that money came from, and they knew there was more to John than met the eye. Much more. John had apparently been stealing horses for quite some time and arranging for their sale far away, quietly pocketing the money and maintaining his local reputation intact. But on this day he had just made off with three beautiful mounts from a nearby ranch and was riding one of them while leading the other two into the hills when the ranchers caught up with him. Allen was quickly recognized as he looked back over his shoulder at the five rapidly approaching men, and before making his getaway he turned to shout a cloud of vociferous profanity at the rightful owners of the horses. Then he dropped the reins of the two horses he was leading, spurred his mount, and made a beeline for thick foliage. Taken aback by John’s colorful verbal outburst and also by the two horses left standing in the road, the group stopped in confusion. But two of the pursuing men maintained enough presence of mind to pull shotguns from their scabbards and fire all four barrels of shot directly at Allen, which hit their mark. John disappeared into the foliage and the men chose not to give chase, instead taking the two horses as their prize and quickly returning to town to spread the news about the musical barber turned horse thief. Over drinks in the bar one of the shotgun wielders was quite descriptive about the episode and insisted that the shotgun blasts fired had hit their mark, and was incredulous that Allen had shown no injury from their impact. He said that the shots had actually bounced off Allen with a loud metallic retort, leaving him unhurt. One of the many eager listeners in the bar promptly raised his glass and offered a toast to the tougher than nails horse thief, christening him ‘Sheet Iron Jack’ because of his bullet proof hide. And thus a nickname – and a legend – were born. Jack’s career as a horse thief now really took off since he no longer had to take the care to lead a cautious double life, and it wasn’t long before he was being chased through the hills and valleys by more than one posse at a time. Yet he not only managed to keep track of his pursuers’ whereabouts but was also able to easily elude them as well. But just simply staying ahead of them was sometimes not enough for this creatively-minded horse thief. It was too easy, and Jack found himself longing for more of a challenge. On one such occasion Jack was informed by a sympathetic friend that a posse was quickly approaching. Jack knew the sheriff leading that particular posse had never seen him, and was willing to bet that no one else in the group had either. So he boldly rode back to find them and, when he had, innocently asked the sheriff what they were all up to. The Sheriff eagerly told him that they were looking for Sheet Iron Jack, the notorious bullet-proof horse thief, and Jack promptly volunteered to join the posse, giving a false name and offering to help if he could. For the rest of that day he road alongside the sheriff and charmed him with his engaging stories. That evening, when the posse stopped to rent rooms for the night, the sheriff was so impressed with Jack that he didn’t want to part company, even for the night, so he asked Jack to be his bunkmate in one room, a request to which Jack charmingly agreed. Late that night, as the sheriff snored loudly in deep sleep, Jack picked up his boots and silently stole out of the room. After closing the door he jammed it shut with the blade of a knife, effectively imprisoning the gullible sheriff inside, then made his way to the stable where he stole the sheriff’s horse as well as two others from the posse, fine horses which he’d had his eye on all day. Just before sunrise he stopped at a farmer’s house and, sitting by candlelight, wrote a note to the sheriff thanking him for his hospitality and complimenting him on his taste in horseflesh. Then he rode off and disappeared, leaving the sheriff and the posse seething in angry frustration as they read the note. Months passed, the theft of horses went on, and Sheet Iron Jack appeared free to roam the country unhindered. On another occasion – even though he knew that a posse was close behind – Jack stopped when he saw a Saturday night barn dance taking place. Tying his horse out front he allowed himself to be lured in by the sound of the lively music. He looked over the crowd, spotted the prettiest girl, and promptly went up to her, laying a hand on her partner’s shoulder. He announced himself as Sheet Iron Jack and stated that he wished to have the honor of dancing with the lady. The man backed off, not knowing what to think, and Jack took the lady in his arms and led her around the floor. When the musicians stopped Jack asked that they keep playing, and selected another young lady as his next partner, separating her from her man and leading her around the floor. And again with another lady. And again; and again; always with the prettiest young ladies, and always with the men backing away without offering any trace of challenge to the man identifying himself as the bullet proof Sheet Iron Jack. After a half dozen such dances Jack pulled his pocket watch out, looked at it thoughtfully, and thanked the ladies as he made his way to the door, saying to the crowd as he passed that a posse was close on his heels and that they would soon be there. As he didn’t want this evening - what had really been a lovely evening for him - to be disrupted, he was taking his leave. With that he got on his horse and rode off. Not ten minutes passed before the posse rode hurriedly into the farm yard, dismounting and asking questions. The half dozen besotted young ladies said that Jack was indeed a gentleman and that his manners were impeccable. The men, embarrassed and humiliated, refused to speak. Then, as the sheriff and his posse were ready to resume the chase, one woman observed wistfully that Jack had danced like an angel. Yes, the other half dozen young pretty ladies chorused sadly, longingly; he danced like an angel. The man who danced like an angel had danced off into the darkness without a trace. The bands of lawmen continued to look, and Jack continued to effortlessly elude them. One day while Jack was riding casually along a mountain road, knowing that no pursuit was close at hand and taking the reprieve to look about for untended horses, he came across a lone man sitting dejectedly in the dirt alongside the road. Asking the stranger what had happened to leave him all alone without any kind of transport, the man explained that he had started out his journey riding a fine horse but that his mount had begun to limp so he had stopped to rest. While he was resting a mountain man had come along, looked over the horse, and sadly but confidently declared that the cause of the lameness was serious and would take at least a year to heal, during which time the horse should not be ridden. Then, as the mountain man walked off, he looked back thoughtfully at the traveler and kindly offered to take the lame horse off his hands for thirty dollars and see to the year-long cure for the poor animal. The traveler had agreed, and accepted thirty dollars for the horse. Now he had to walk to the nearest town and see if he could buy another horse for that thirty dollars. Jack just shook his head and smiled at the naivety of this man who gave new meaning to the word ‘Greenhorn’. But Jack also felt sorry for him. Telling the man to sit down and wait for his return, Jack rode off on the trail of the mountain man. When he found the shifty fellow Jack identified himself, pulled his gun, and told him that he was going to take the horse back to the greenhorn who had been so easily fleeced and that the mountain man should shut up and not offer any objection; that losing thirty dollars was an inexpensive lesson for learning manners. But the mountain man did indeed object, so Jack leveled his revolver and told him to empty his pockets; that the man’s mouth had now cost him whatever other money he had in his possession as well. To Jack’s surprise and delight, the mountain man had over six hundred dollars in his pockets, all of which Jack now gratefully took possession. Jack warned the man that if anybody was going to steal horses in these mountains it was going to be him – Sheet Iron Jack – and that he didn’t appreciate any competition from a local con artist. Then he led the lame horse back to its rightful owner and explained that the horse’s limp was caused by a shoe which wasn’t fitting properly, and that a blacksmith could easily fix it. He related what had happened with the mountain man and told the traveler to keep the thirty dollars, but cautioned him that, if he ever saw the man in this part of the mountains again, he would be fair game for Sheet Iron Jack. The traveler had his horse, thirty dollars, and a story to tell, and Jack had an enhanced reputation. But Jack was getting tired of life on the road; of life on the run. He was a social person who craved company; who liked to sing and dance and drink. So one evening in search of companionship he road into town and went into a bar for a drink. One drink led to another, and all those drinks led to Jack’s being a little too loquacious and he got into an argument with another man. Words led to shouts and weapons were drawn. The shot aimed at Jack may have simply missed its mark, but legend has it that it bounced off the chest of Sheet Iron Jack and fell to the bar room floor. Jack’s shot hit the target, wounding his opponent. Jack was thrown in jail, put on trial, and sentenced to two years in San Quentin. Ironically, on the way out of town to prison, while escorted by two guards on board a stage, the coach was waylaid by two armed bandits seeking to hold it up. After the first shotgun blast from the outlaws Jack stuck his head out the stage window and let go with a loud and colorful burst of profanity aimed at the would-be robbers, saying that he was on his way to get some sea air and he would appreciate a little peace and quiet. Astounded, the two robbers retreated into the brush without completing the robbery. Jack stayed in San Quentin for less than six months of his two year sentence, as his lawyer’s appeal for a new trial was successful. Back in county jail, Jack escaped in less than a week. But the escapade on the stage while riding to San Quentin had stuck in his mind, so he recruited two fellows down on their luck and the three of them robbed a stagecoach. Jack found it surprisingly easy, so he and his companions promptly robbed two more. Jack had always been successful while working alone, and having two new companions proved to be his downfall. After the third robbery those two were easily apprehended, and they told the sheriff where Jack could be found. Within days he was back in San Quentin, this time serving a sentence of twenty-four years for armed robbery. But Jack’s luck still held, and six years later the governor of California commuted his sentence and set him free – with the provision that Jack leave California and stay out. Jack should have heeded that advice, but he didn’t. Less than a year later Jack stumbled out of a bar and began shouting profanity at passersby. When the sheriff came along and suggested that Jack might want to tone things down, Jack pulled his gun and pointed it at the sheriff. The sheriff, with cool deliberation, grabbed the barrel of the gun and twisted it around to point at Jack, then told Jack to go ahead and pull the trigger. Jack wasn’t that intoxicated. He allowed himself to be led to jail to sleep it off in the drunk tank. But while Jack was sleeping a detective from the San Francisco police force arrived in town looking for him. He had evidence that Jack had been involved in the theft and resale of a very expensive horse. And the evidence was pretty persuasive – when he’d resold the stolen horse, Jack had signed the bill of sale with his real name, John Allen. This time Jack was sent to Folsom Prison. He served his sentence in full, and when he was released, he disappeared forever. Some said that he belatedly took the governor’s advice and left California for good. Others said that he went to live with the Modoc in Northern California, a native tribe amongst whom he had many friends. And still others said that he immediately returned to his old profession of horse thievery; a career at which he was actually quite good as long worked on his own, didn’t take on any assistants to betray him, and didn’t drink or talk too much. Playing the guitar beautifully with only nine fingers; singing haunting Mexican ballads in his deep baritone voice; stealing horses with ease; Sheet Iron Jack was an outlaw with style; the outlaw who was a legend because he was impervious to bullets. And he danced like an angel.
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AuthorWith a degree in Anthropology and an avid interest in history, Tim Christensen has lived in the Sierra Nevada Mountains for many years. He has no cell phone or television, but manages, when not chopping firewood or shoveling snow, to keep himself entertained with a library of several thousand books. Archives
July 2017
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