Jack Schaefer
In January 1991, Jack Schaefer died in Santa Fe, New Mexico, closing a career that had taken him from the newsrooms of the United Press to the literary landscape of the American West. His trajectory from journalist to novelist and children's writer traced a path that few writers of his generation followed as distinctly.
Born on November 19, 1907, in Cleveland, Ohio, Schaefer grew up as an American citizen whose early intellectual formation took place at Oberlin College. He graduated in 1929 with a major in English, and the discipline and precision that characterize good journalism were qualities he carried forward from that foundation into his later work. After completing his studies, he went to work for the United Press, where he developed the craft of writing clearly and under pressure — a training ground that shaped the economy of his prose style.
Schaefer worked as a writer across several forms and audiences, producing novels, journalism, and works directed at younger readers. Throughout his career he wrote consistently within the Western genre, a literary territory defined by the landscapes, conflicts, and characters of the American frontier. His engagement with that genre was sustained and serious, and it earned him recognition from within the field: he received the Owen Wister Award, a distinction given for outstanding contributions to the literature of the American West.
By the time of his death on January 24, 1991, Schaefer had spent the final chapter of his life in Santa Fe, a location that placed him squarely within the region whose stories and settings had defined much of his writing life. The Owen Wister Award stands as the most formally documented acknowledgment of his standing within Western literature, marking his work as a meaningful contribution to a genre that shaped how American readers understood their own continental history. He was eighty-three years old at the time of his death.
Quotes by Jack Schaefer

Even his name remained mysterious. Just Shane. Nothing else. We never knew whether that was his first name or last name or, indeed, any name that came from his family. “Call me Shane,” he said, and that was all he ever said. But I conjured up all manner of adventures for him, not tied to any particular time or place, seeing him as a slim and dark and dashing figure coolly passing through perils that would overcome a lesser man.

Father, of course, was special all to himself. There could never be anyone quite to match him. I wanted to be like him, just as he was. But first I wanted, as he had done, to ride the range, to have my own string of ponies and take part in an all-brand round-up and in a big cattle drive and dash into strange towns with just such a rollicking crew and with a season’s pay jingling in my pockets.

Listen, Bob. A gun is just a tool. No better and no worse than any other tool, a shovel- or an axe or a saddle or a stove or anything. Think of it always that way. A gun is as good- and as bad- as the man who carries it. Remember that.


Shane was looking down the road and on to the open plain and the horse was obeying the silent command of the reins. He was riding away and I knew that no word or thought could hold him. The big horse, patient and powerful, was already settling into the steady pace that had brought him into our valley, and the two, the man and the horse, were a single dark shape in the road as they passed beyond the reach of the light from the windows




