There are people I run across while reading or traveling or meet in person who fascinate me to the point that I start learning all about them to see if they are truly as wonderful as I’ve been led to believe. Blame it on my degree in English and all those research papers, but I really get obsessed with digging through books and the internet to see what I can find.
My latest obsession is close to home. I graduated from Oklahoma State University and, of course, knew the mascot, Pistol Pete. I’m not sure I was aware that he is the ONLY college mascot based on a real person, although I knew there was an actual Pistol Pete. Back in the days before the abundance of branding, we didn’t see Pistol Pete, the mascot, except at sporting events. How I wish I’d been there just a few years earlier.
The real Pistol Pete was Frank Eaton and he lived about ten miles from OSU. He became the mascot in 1923 when he was still alive and liked to roam the campus, wearing his guns on his belt. He walked the sidelines at football games and spoke to classes, demonstrating his quick draw until he shot a bullet into a wall in the Student Union basement during a class. The hole is still there, evidently.
Frank Eaton wrote an autobiography, “Pistol Pete: Veteran of the Old West,” that is astounding for many reasons and almost too rich in details of life in Indian Territory in the late 1800s to believe. I’ve tried to find someone to debunk it, but all I’ve found are facts to make it more believable, even though he may have fudged or not known his actual birthdate, which allowed him to be a lawman in his teens. He wrote the book, or dictated it to his co-writer, when he was in his 90s, which could make it doubtful. When she was in her 80s, I asked my mother a question about her childhood and she replied with incredible detail, drawing a picture of her grandmother’s house with all the plants outside, the furniture inside, etc. Memories are an amazing thing and I’m sure Frank Eaton had told his stories too many times to forget.
I won’t go through the details because I’d love for you to discover his life yourself, even if you just go to Wikipedia. This guy was the real deal. His father was shot to death by six men in the doorway of their home with eight year old Frank watching. A family friend told him he was no kind of a man if he didn’t avenge his father and get the killers, so he learned to shoot at eight, perfecting his accuracy and quick draw until he was the best in the territory. He was appointed to be a marshall in his teens, killed five of the cattle rustling thieves who killed his father, worked chasing bad guys for the Cattlemen’s Association and the marshals, was a bronc buster, rode in cattle drives, worked on cattle ranches, worked in Pawnee Bill’s Wild West Show, was in the land rush, farmed, was a blacksmith and a water-witcher who not only could find water, but climbed down in the holes to place the dynamite. He was absolutely fearless, didn’t drink, played cards, smoked, cussed like a sailor except in front of women, and even learned to play the fiddle. No matter what you think, you can’t dispute his prowess as a quick draw master. There are films on YouTube of him demonstrating when he was in his 90s. Amazingly fun to see. Here’s one of my favorite pictures of him. He never lost this persona. 
What I love most about Frank from the various accounts I’ve read is the kind of man he was. After all his adventures, he married a woman he loved. They were homesteaders and struggled and had two daughters. His wife died, leaving him with the two girls and he kept them near him. He remarried another woman and had eight more children. He worked as a blacksmith in Perkins, OK and never tired of showing off his shooting skills or telling his stories. One man who lived there said he loved to show off by hitting two matchsticks from twenty yards, never missing. Gunshots could be heard in Perkins, followed by his loud laugh, “Ho Ho Ho!” He even wrote a column for the Perkins paper when he was in his 90s. Even though he never spoke of attending school, his daughter said he wrote one of his books by hand in his Spencerian style. He had a wonderful sense of humor, which shows in the stories he told, some of them tall tales that match those of Mark Twain and Bret Harte. He may not have made them up, but he knew how to tell them.
He was a legend in his own time, which delighted him no end. He rode in the parades, which is where OSU students saw him and asked him to be their mascot. He spoke to school children. Listening to tapes of him speaking, you get a feel for his story telling ability, which must have been a delight for those who stopped by to visit him in his Perkins home.
I visited his home recently in the park where the citizens of Perkins have moved it and dedicated a huge statue to him. 
You can find photos of him sitting on the porch of this house, entertaining guests. Everything looks the same.
This larger than life man was actually small, standing at 5’5″ in his later years. He had a lazy eye, which makes his incredible shooting skills even more intriguing. He wore his hair in long braids, always had a gun on his belt, would give the shirt off his back to anyone in need, loved his kids and grandkids, and never asked for anything that I can tell. He was definitely a character, decidedly a hero, and, at the very least, someone you wish you had met.
When I see his image on everything imaginable at OSU, I smile, knowing that he would have absolutely loved it. My big regret is that I reached campus a mere five years after he died. Isn’t that unbelievable? There are people alive today who walked to class beside a real life cowboy from frontier days, wearing his guns and telling his stories. How much fun would that have been? I’ll have to settle for reading his stories, seeing his home and other memorials to him in small museums around the state, and knowing that such a person really did proudly live in the state I call home. And seeing his image around campus, including the current mascot. I hope we all do him proud.
Confetti Thoughts 