The Pistol Pete Jacket

The Pistol Pete jacket was not designed by Miami Florida's Pedro Diaz. When Diaz was an upstart, his colleagues would marvel at the way he dressed and some commented that his ensembles were European and forward looking; two terms I wouldn't know about and why, when combined, they make an exceptional fashion statement.


What I do know is that Diaz created a Pistol Pete line of swim wear for men, but he had nothing to do with leather biker jackets.

Pistol Pete Maravich gave the world of basketball a thrill. Before he died at age 40, Peter Press Maravich had a pro career that saw him become the 16th all-time leader in average points per game, but it was his college game at LSU that made him famous. Scoring 3,667 points in 3 years (NCAA rules in the era he played college ball, 1967-1970, would not allow him to play on the varsity team as a senior) has him ranked as the all-time scoring leader in NCAA Division I.

He was truly a legend in his field, but this Pistol Pete didn't lend his name to the legendary leather biker jacket.

The name Frank Pistol Pete Eaton is not as well known as Wyatt Earp, Doc Holiday, or Wild Bill Hickok, but his story is every bit as epic. So much so that his image was adopted as the Oklahoma State University's mascot in 1958 and his name is enshrined in the form of a popular leather biker jacket design.



Frank was born 1860, in Hartford, Connecticut. Shortly thereafter, his father went off to fight for the Union Army during the Civil War. His father returned and moved his family to Twin Mounds, Kansas where he became a Vigilante. It was here, in 1868, that Frank, age 8, witnessed his father's violent death.

Six Members of the Champsey-Ferber clans, who rode as Regulators, entered the Eaton homestead and murdered Frank's father. At this point, Frank's father's best friend Mose Beaman, told young Frank:

My boy, may an old man's curse rest upon you if you do not try to avenge your father's murder

Mose Beaman taught Frank how to shoot a gun when Frank was still 8 years old. When Frank was fifteen, he rode to the nearest U.S. Army outpost which was Fort Gibson in Oklahoma. His purpose for going to the fort was to learn how to handle his guns.

Although Frank Eaton was not old enough to join the Army, the fort's commander did allow him to compete in shooting competitions. Frank become so adept at gun handling and shooting that he won many of the competitions. The commander gave Frank a citation and the nickname Pistol Pete. Legend has it that Frank was fast enough on the draw to take a coin from his pocket and toss it to the ground, drawing and shooting the coin before it hit the ground.

At 17, Pistol Pete Eaton took on the job of U.S. Marshall under the jurisdiction of Judge Isaac The Hanging Judge Parker. Eaton's territory ran from southern Kansas to northern Texas, most of it falling in the Indian territory of Oklahoma.



It was while working as a U.S. Marshall that Pistol Pete Eaton earned the 15 notches in his gun belt. All fifteen notches came while on the job as a lawman, with five of those notches belonging to men who gunned his father down. The sixth man was killed by someone else during a card game in 1887.

During his tenure as a lawman, Eaton was shot twice. Once in the chest, but he was saved by a crucifix that his lover had given him. As fate would have it, she had died of pneumonia before he was able to thank her. The second time he was shot was during the his last gunfight. This was the fight he earned his last notch.

Because I do not believe I could sum up Frank Eaton's final act of vengeance before he retired at the ripe old age of 29 better than he did himself, I have reprinted his account as it appears at Gunslinger Saints. His account reads like an old western novel, and when I read it, I could almost smell the furball of adrenaline,dust, gunpowder, testosterone, and justice.

Albuquerque - The End of the Trail

I had stopped in one saloon and was coming out of the second one when I noticed a tall man with a heavy mustache standing by the door. As I started down the street he started right behind me. I turned around and met him.

"Stranger," I said, "you seem to be following me. Is there any information I can give you?"

"Well, yes, there is," said the man, with a Western drawl. "When a young fellow comes into town riding as good an outfit as you have, with a Winchester under his leg and two guns on, when he goes into every dance hall and saloon in town and doesn't take a drink or have anything to do with the girls, he naturally excites a lot of curiosity."

I grinned. "Well," I said, "my name is Frank Eaton, my home is on Sand Creek in Cooweescoowee District in the Cherokee Nation, Indian Territory. I am a rider for the Cattlemen's Association and am in line of duty. Now is there anything more?"

The man smiled. "My name is Pat Garrett," he said, "I am an officer, I have heard of you and am glad to meet you." We shook hands and he said, "Let's go in and drink something."

This was during the time known as "the Lincoln County War," in New Mexico. I knew Pat Garrett as the well-to-do rancher who, at the risk of his own life, had taken the job of sheriff and was trying to establish a semblance of law and order, so that honest men might live in bloody Lincoln County. I had the greatest respect for him.

"I don't drink," I told him, "but I will go in with you."

We walked down the street and went into the next saloon. As we came up to the bar and the bartender came up to wait on us, I had to look only once. This was the end of the trail. My job was almost finished. Before me stood the last man, Wyley Campsey!

Garrett called for a drink and paid for it. Laying his hand on my shoulder he walked out with me.

"Don't lie to me, boy," he said, "I know you are after a man."

"Yes. What's more, I have found him. It's that damned bartender, and I'm going to get him!"

"Wait, son," said Garrett, "he is a bad hombre, he has been in a lot of trouble, and has two of the fastest gunmen in Lincoln County for his bodyguards."

I threw back my head and laughed. "I don't care if he has the whole United States Army for bodyguards. He or I will hear the cook call breakfast in hell. Let's go eat and I will tell you why I am after him."

We went into a restaurant and sat down at an out-of-the-way table in the back. There were no other customers, so we could talk. I told him the story of my father's murder. How I had carried in my heart, all these years, the picture of my father lying in the doorway, a man standing over his body, emptying his gun into my father's lifeless form. How I had fallen on my father's body, screaming, only to be pulled.away, brutally struck with a riding whip and kicked across the room.

Then I told him the words of Mose Beaman. I could almost hear Mose saying, "May an old man's curse be upon you if you do not try to avenge your father. You must never stop until the last man has been accounted for." I told Pat Garrett of the years that followed, of learning how to shoot, of how all the other killers had been brought to justice and how I felt, now that I was face to face with the last man, Wyley Campsey, the bartender in the saloon next door.

I showed Pat Garrett my Deputy United States Marshal badge and commission and my letter from Captain Knipe of the Cattlemen's Association. I told him of the murder and thieving of the gang in the Cherokee Nation and how, with the help of the Lighthorsemen, we had cleaned them out; I told him, too, that Wyley was wanted for the murder of an officer at Vian in the Indian Territory.

As Pat Garrett listened he seemed to be weighing every word. When I had finished he said, "This is something you had better not tackle alone. You know I cannot allow another killing if I can prevent it."

"You can't prevent this one and if you think you can, right now is as good a time to start as you will ever have." I was ready to go for my guns.

"Hold on, son," he said, "you got me wrong. I only meant that you had better let me go in and try to arrest him."

"Oh, no, that man will never submit to arrest. He knows he will hang. Any man would rather die with his gun in his hand."

"You may be right, son, but how are you going to handle this one?"

"Easy enough," I told him, "when you see me ride down and tie my horse in front of that place you go uptown, and come back after the fireworks. It won't be long. I know he is fast but I think I am faster."

"What about the two men, his bodyguards?"

"If they want to take chips in another man's game I guess they will have to play them, that's all. I hope they don't, for they might lose and that would complicate matters for me with the local police."

"Don't worry, son," said Garrett, "there will be no trouble on that score. The thing that worries me is that maybe you have overplayed your hand. Three to one is a hard game and heavy odds."

"I'll risk it and guess we had better be getting busy." We arose from the table, I paid the bill and we went out on the street.

"Well, son, I like your nerve and wish you the best of luck."

"Thank you, sir, you sure are a man." We shook hands and parted.

I went to the livery barn, saddled my pony and paid the bill. Then I mounted and rode down the street to the saloon where I had seen Wyley Campsey. I ground-tied old Bowlegs a little to one side of the door so that if any stray shots came through the door they would not hit him. Working my guns to make sure they were loose in the holsters, I walked through the crowd and stopped at the bar.

"What do you want, kid?" asked Wyley as I stood in front of him.

"I just want you, Wyley." We were about four feet apart with nothing but the bar between us.

Wyley looked at his two guards. They showed a lack of war wisdom for they came to him instead of staying where they were. That move put all of them in a bunch right under my eyes and close to me.

Frank 'Pistol Pete' Eaton
Legend tells that Eaton, one of the fastest gunmen of his day, put five of the 11 notches on his .45 Colt tracking down a group of Confederates who murdered his father. The other six notches were accumulated when "Pistol Pete" was riding as a U.S. Deputy marshal for Judge Parker.
"Want me? What do you mean?" asked Wyley, flanked by his two gunmen.

"Don't you remember me, Wyley?" "I never saw you before!"

"Oh yes, you have! It was the night you killed my father! I am Frank Eaton, remember? Fill your hand, you son of a bitch!"

All three of them went for their guns.

Wyley got his to the top of the bar but went down with two forty-fives through his heart. The guards were lightning on the draw. One of them went down without firing a shot but the other one got me in the leg and again in the left arm, knocking one of my guns out of my hand, before he went down.

There was a wild stampede among the bystanders when the shooting started, but it was finished before any of them got out the door. Looking over the bar to be sure there was no need for further action I started for the door and ran right into Pat Garrett. He had been standing in the door looking in.

"How bad are you hit, son?" he asked.

"Not so bad but what I can ride if you will help me onto my horse."

He helped me into the saddle. "You have lost one of your guns," he said. "Here's another one." He stuck a long gun in my empty holster saying, "After you have ridden a few miles you will see a house off to your right. Go in there and tell them that I sent you. They will dress your wounds and keep you until you are able to go on. They are friends of mine and fine people."

I thanked him and galloped out of town.

After Pistol Pete Eaton killed the last man who murdered his father, he retired from the Marshall service and participated in the Oklahoma land rush where he settled near Perkins, Oklahoma. Eaton lived the rest of his days in Perkins, where he served as Sheriff and Blacksmith among other things.


Frank Eaton lived to the age of 98 years, and it said that he always wore his loaded guns and he was as fast on the draw in his later years as he was in his youth.

I'd rather have a pocketful of rocks than carry around unloaded guns.

In 1958, the year that Eaton passed away, the Oklahoma State University officially adopted his caricature as the model for the school mascot.

So, when you see OSU students throw their hands up like they're shooting handguns, you'll know the story behind the gesture. You'll know about a child's rough ride to vengeance.

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