We yanks love our mythology more than our reality; always have. Growing up in the forties, the "wild west" was still very much a part of our upbringing and game playing. Western heroes, wearing hats and attire designed by Hollywood tailors and never seen on the real range, were all the rage. I loved it all as much as any of my peers, living on a ranch and riding horses was all part of it. Men and women who had been there in the 1870's and 1880's were still around.

I have read accounts of any number of real "bad men" over the years. Most had only a passing resemblance to their characters as portrayed on screen. Jesse was an angry young man; a follower of Quantrill who took part in murder and mayhem disguised as warfare. The fact that he had adopted an alias, something common to many outlaws, didn't change who he was. His poor, grieving wife and children knew exactly what he was.

Johnny Ringo was a melancholy alcoholic whose reputation far exceeded his actual deeds. Romantics like to believe he was killed by Wyatt Earp or Doc Holliday. He likely committed suicide.

Wyatt Earp was an opportunistic, self-promoting sort. He was fortunate to have lived long enough to help create his own myth with the help of "biographer" Stuart Lake. His buddy, Doc Holliday, was an angry, embittered alcoholic, a victim of tuberculosis estranged from his well-connected Georgia roots. He was authentically deadly, with nothing to lose, but hardly admirable.

I always sort of liked the "Ballad of Jesse James." I just see it as a song about a mythical character. The myth is still more fun than the reality. It's more comforting.