These photos — two of many that Rick Benning has been methodically rescuing from boxes recovered from the old freight office — offer a portrait of a lost art deeply rooted in this region. Globe was once known for its saddlemakers, and among the best were Charlie Collins and Ed and Earl Bacon, whose shops along Broad Street turned raw leather into indispensable tools of the working West.
Charlie Collins came to Arizona in 1895 and eventually opened the Chas. Collins Saddlery on Broad Street, where he operated for more than 40 years.
He was said to be one of the few who could hand-tool a saddle “from horn to taps,” and he earned a local reputation for his uncanny ability to repair anything “that man, horse and terrain hath rent asunder.”
A lifelong student of cowboy history, Collins contributed to western writers and painters, yet he had little admiration for what he saw as the “modern cowboy.”
“The real cowboys are all dead or moved into town,” he once said. “And the kids hanging around the rodeos and ranches look more natural holding a gearshift than bridle reins. But I stay on with it, because I can. I can still make a saddle in a week, and with proper care it will last 30 years.”
Collins passed away in 1962 and is buried in the Globe Cemetery.
A second rescued photo shows a saddle made by Ed Bacon for his grandson. No date is recorded, but the craftsmanship is unmistakable — another reminder of the Bacon family’s legacy on Broad Street.
Bacon Boots & Saddles began in 1948 as a family operation led by Ed and Doris Bacon, later joined by their son Earl and his wife Linda. When they moved to 290 N. Broad Street, the front became a western store while the back remained the heart of the business — where Ed and Earl could always be found at their benches crafting saddles built to withstand real work.
In a 2002 Arizona Republic feature by writer-photographer Angela Cara Pancrazio, longtime customer Burrell Teague explained why Bacon saddles were prized by working cowboys:
“No way around it, a saddle has to be stout,” he said, slipping into campfire-tale mode. “When you’ve got a bull that weighs nearly a ton stuck on the side of a mountain, the only way to get that stubborn boy down is to rope it. You dally up — wrap that rope two, three times around the leather of the horn. And if that horn isn’t stronger than any living being, the rope will slice that sucker right off.”
As Teague put it, “You can stick your head in the dirt if the riggin’ or horn pulls out.”
History isn’t preserved by accident. It survives because someone — often a volunteer with no promise of recognition — chooses to believe that what came before still matters. These rediscovered photos, once forgotten in the freight office and damaged by age and flood debris, are more than images of saddlemakers and the tools they crafted. They are evidence of the hands, the skill, and the lives that shaped this community.
Without the steady persistence of people like Rick Benning, and without preservation partners like the Globe Downtown Association, the Gila Historical Museum, and Bullion Plaza, these stories might be lost. Instead, they are returning to the light — one drawer, one negative, one determined volunteer at a time.
And that is how a community keeps its roots alive.
**If you are looking for rewarding work and have a few hours to give back to help preserve our heritage, consider lending time to the historical museums.
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