And He Danced Like An Angel

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.