“I have a plan,” said Richard Milhous Nixon in 1968. He was going to end the Vietnam War he told us. “What was his plan?” we asked? Nixon couldn’t tell us. It involved secret negotiations. It would end the War in dignity.
1968 was a tough, divisive year for America. The Vietnam War was dragging on. In January, the Tet Offensive had demonstrated that our control of the situation was more tenuous than we had been led to believe. Images of our besieged troops had been all over out TV’s. Major cities like Hue were attacked. Marines were besieged hat Khe Sahn. We saw our embassy in Saigon under attack. Walter Cronkite came on the news and told us the war was unwinnable. Protests against the war increased.
The beleaguered President Johnson narrowly won the Democratic primary in New Hampshire. Anti-war Democrats turned to anti-war Senator Eugene McCarthy for answers. With Johnson’s political future looking dim, he withdrew from the race, saying. “I shall not seek, and I will not accept, the nomination of my party for another term as your president.” He announced that he would spend the remainder of his term seeking a negotiated peace agreement in Vietnam. The pressure off, he did his best.
Meanwhile the presidential race turned into chaos. Johnson’s logical successor was Vice President Hubert Humphrey. He wasn’t very popular and he wasn’t saying much about how he would end the war. Soon, Robert F. Kennedy joined the race as a peace candidate. McCarthy, who was showing some strength, beat him in Oregon. Kennedy came back strong in California only to be assassinated on the eve of his victory. The convention in Chicago turned into absolute chaos as demonstrators and police battled in the streets outside the convention hall. Humphrey won enough delegates to become the nominee.
The Republicans met in Miami to choose their nominee. Richard Nixon beat out Nelson Rockefeller and Ronald Reagan for the nomination. This set up a contest between the sallow Nixon and the unpopular Humphrey. As the campaign progressed Humphrey became a bit more of a dove on ending the war. Nixon was hawkish. He made it clear that he would only accept peace with honor.
In spite of the differences on the war issue in the Democratic party, the race was close. The peace talks began in Paris that May. The nation was hoping they would succeed. If they proved fruitful, the election would swing to Humphrey and the Democrats.
Then Nixon did something we would not learn about for years. He approached the South Vietnamese leadership through an intermediary. Anna Chen Chenault was the Chinese widow of Claire Chennault, Commander of the Flying Tigers in World War II China. Chennault met with the Vietnamese ambassador to encourage his country’s leader, President Thieu, to slow progress on the peace talks because Nixon could get a better deal. On October 23, 1968, the ambassador cabled Thieu, telling him, “Many Republican friends have contacted me and encouraged us to stand firm.”
Johnson had his CIA closely monitoring Vietnamese communications. He considered Nixon’s actions to be treason, but said nothing. By conducting negotiations with a foreign power as a private citizen, Nixon had violated the Logan Act which had been in effect since 1799.
The Vietnamese did stall the talks. With no peace in sight, Nixon won the election. His secret plan to end the war never materialized. It dragged on for another 4 and ½ years with 30,000 more American deaths. The 1973 peace that finally ended the war was a sham. The North Vietnamese invaded South Vietnam and took it over 2 years later.
LDT August 21, ‘24
Trump meets with Netanyahu July 26, 2024
I was thinking of Nixon’s infamous act the other day when it was reported that Donald Trump had met with Israeli Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, at Mar-a-Lago on July 26, 2024. Both men are battling for their political lives. Netanyahu is hanging on to power primarily because of the war he is conducting in Gaza. The current US administration is catching a lot of heat from Americans who are developing sympathies for the plight of innocent Palestinians caught up in the war that Hamas started. The administration is working hard on a negotiated settlement. If a peace deal should happen, Donald Trump’s chances for winning the 2024 election will decrease.
Were Trump and Netanyahu engaging in a conspiracy to violate US law and prolong the war in Gaza?
The Cumbres and Toltec Railway runs between Chama New, Mexico and Antonito, Colorado. The line is 64 miles long and crosses North America’s highest railway pass. You can take a roundtrip to the midpoint or run the entire route and return by bus. Either way you get a great buffet lunch in the high country at Osier, Colorado.
“We’re going back to The Rock on this thing?” I gasped.
“At least it ain’t the Henrico.’ A grunt from 1/9 opined.
“You think the Henrico was bad? You should have been with us on the Greasy George Clymer. Fifty-seven straight days of cruising off Vietnam on that miserable excuse for a ship. Hotter than hell. No ventilation. If you slept on the deck, you got covered in soot. I was ready to charge ashore into machine gun fire just to get off the damn thing.” Said my buddy Al.
The Navy gray semi-trailer bus we called a cattle car stopped by the ship. It wasn’t sitting at a dock like a normal ship. It had simply driven itself up to a ramp. Its clamshell bow doors were open revealing a couple of tanks inside. We couldn’t see the name on the stern, but the bow bore the number 1170.
“Hey look! It’s an LST. No climbing up any cargo nets today.” Another Marine said.
“Them flat-bottomed scows ain’t much good in the open ocean.” Grumbled an old Gunnery Sergeant.
We shouldered our packs M-14s and grabbed our seabags to board.
“This thing looks kinda new. Bet it’s never even been hit by a Kamikaze.” Someone obviously knew what had happened to the Henrico 20 years before off Okinawa.
“Look at it this way. If someone shoots a torpedo at this thing, it will just go underneath it.”
We continued joking as we slipped by the tanks to board. We were hung over from a night in Olongapo with its famous San Miguel beer, but our spirits were high. We were going home. Well, sorta home. We were returning to our base o9n Okinawa. The Rock was a tropical paradise of emerald-green hills, sandy beaches, and coral reefs.
We climbed a ladder into the troop compartment and noticed things we weren’t used to seeing. The ship was spotlessly clean and freshly painted. The canvas on our bunks was bright white without the usual soiling and tearing.
Someone stuck his hand up to a round tube protruding from the bulkhead. “I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed. “The ventilation system works.”
We were on the USS Windham County and a good ship she was. Loading through the cavernous tank deck took no time at all. Within a couple of hours, the ship was backing into Subic Bay. As she turned about, we got a last glimpse of the USS Princeton at the carrier pier. The big Essex Class carrier had been our home for the past two months. The Sweet P was big and fast. Mostly we loved her because of all the room she had on board. With half of the battalion and one helicopter squadron, it wasn’t very crowded. Platoons ran laps on the flight deck, we rode the huge elevators with the choppers, and there were movies on the hanger deck. Good ones too, like The Pink Panther with Peter Sellers and Claudia Cardinale. Man, that woman could act! Goodbye, Sweet P. Have a nice war.
We sailed close to Bataan as we exited the harbor. The ghosts of McArthur’s besieged troops hung in the mists of its jungle. We made a steady 13 knots as we turned north into the South China Sea. Not up to the Princeton’s 30 knots, but a nice gentle ride on fair seas. An old salt told me that LSTs were designed to take on seawater for ballast to make them more stable on the open ocean.
A crew of sailors limbered up an anti-aircraft gun on the upper deck. “This oughta’ be interesting,” I thought. Then a Navy plane towed a target slip by us. The crew fired away. They missed. Well it was fun watching the black puffs of smoke as the shells exploded.
In the Galley, the chow was good. One thing we all liked about the Navy was their canned whole milk. None of that re-combined condensed crap we got on land. For the most part, their eggs weren’t green either. We had a good-sized space on the deck to roam and shoot the breeze. Mulliner ran a crap game while Chiado got me to play our One Thousand, Seven Hundred, and Eighth hand of Crazy Eights. It had been a long cruise. Long after dark, we headed down to our racks. Someone played music on a short-wave radio after lights out. Life was good.
In the morning we awoke to find the vessel rolling and heaving through the swells. The weather must have picked up. Up on deck the wind was blowing and the sky was turning gray. We could see the swells raising the bow, then letting it down with a big splash. The ship shook as it bobbed up and down in the swells. This was getting to be a fun ride. After morning chow, the seas had picked up some more and the clouds grew more ominous. We were running into a brisk wind. As she rose and fell on the swells, the ship began rolling from side to side. The shaking and shuddering got more pronounced as the bow rose and fell farther than before. This was very cool, like some of the rides at Disney Land.
The wind got stronger and the swells higher. The spray was starting to get us wet. Big white caps were starting to crash over the bow.
The louspeaker whistled and a voice cackled. “Attention on deck! Attention on deck! Now hear this! Now hear this! All Marines go below. Repeat, All Marines go below! We are entering a tropical storm. Expect winds of 50-60 miles an hour, rain squalls, and heavy seas. All sailors on deck, don your life jackets. Sailors don your life jackets. That is all.” We were in the middle of a tropical storm called Daling by the locals and Vera by the Navy.
“What the hell? Didn’t the damn Navy know there was a storm coming? This tub wasn’t meant for heavy seas.” Someone said to a chorus of groans. We went below. Some found a seat in the Galley, but most had to return to their racks in the cramped troop compartment, it felt like we were trapped in a submarine while depth charges were raining down. The waves banged off the hull. The ship rose higher, fell farther and groaned more as the waves pounded it. Some of the guys got sick. The lucky ones made it to the Head before their stomachs erupted. Most of us had our sea legs by then and laughed as the weaker ones lost their guts. The ventilation system helped with the smell. It became harder to stand or walk as the seas churned more and more. It was best to keep your knees bent and hang on to something. The ship’s pitching and yawing kept getting worse.
Then things got crazy. The damn ship was turning around! It rolled sharply as it turned throwing loose items and unsteady troops into bulkheads. “What now?” The ship righted itself and plowed along for a while. Someone came in from the Galley and said the tank doors were leaking. That explained the turnabout, but isn’t a ship supposed to run into the weather?
Men swore oaths. “If I ever ship over in this damn outfit, it will be to get into the Air Wing!” someone muttered.
Mulliner suspended his crap game when the dice kept rolling off the bottom rack. Then the ship turned around again.
“I hope the Skipper knows where he’s going!”
“He’s probably some damn Six-Monther getting his ticket punched. Bet he’s a used car salesman from Dago in the real world.”
“This ain’t nuthin’. Did I ever tell you ‘bout the time….”
“Shut up, you lying sack of seaweed!”
The ship continued its roller coaster ride on the sea. There was a thunderous crash each time it slammed down into a trough. The steel hull groaned as it twisted. It was going to be a long, long night. Lights out didn’t help. Few slept. Most of us kept a hand wrapped around the tubular frame of our racks.
The big guy in the rack above me kept shifting position. His butt was about 3 inches from my belly. I had to twist to roll over on my side. Then he threw up. I grabbed the towel hanging from the end of his rack and tried to help him clean it up in the dim light. It took three trips to the Head to finish the clean-up and rinse out the towel.
Late that night, I finally fell asleep. The next morning, I awoke to the gentile humming of the ship’s diesel engines. The seas had calmed. I grabbed some clean skivvies and went to the Head to shower.
On deck, it was a perfect morning in the South China Sea. A flying fish jumped from the crest of a small wave and disappeared into the peaceful blue ocean. The Windham County was no worse for the tough night it had just endured. She still sails today but with a different Navy.
Me? I will be sleeping in the top rack from now on!
“Whar’s that damn Yankee Lieutenant?” barked the Rebel Sergeant.
Reuben struggled to his feet. His stomach still churned from the half-cooked Confederate cornmeal of the night before. He’d been up half the night tending to the wounded Cronin. They had finally fallen asleep about the same time. His back ached from sleeping on the wet ground.
“Here.” He said lifting his hand.
“Ya’ll come with me, heah, ya abolitionist scum.”
Abolitionist? thought Reuben, Hope these fellers don’t know about Kansas.
“Da Cunel wants to see ya. Come along.”
As they walked by where the horses were picketed, the Rebel Sergeant pointed to Brownie and asked, “That un you’alls?”
“Maybe,” Reuben answered as Brownie perked up his ears hearing his familiar voice.
“Thought so. Damn of’cers always get the best. Looks like a good ‘un.”
Then Reuben noticed the long Spanish rowels on the Rebel’s spurs. If there was one thing Brownie didn’t tolerate, it was hard spurring.
“Sometimes he needs a bit of the whip and the spur,” Reuben offered, trying not to smirk.
With the conversation finished, the Sergeant escorted Reuben to the Colonel’s white tent. Noting the U.S. markings, Reuben assumed it was part of the booty captured two days before at Brice’s Cross Roads. They must have got the whole damn train, he thought.
An orderly was lounging outside the tent.
“I shoulda shot this damn Yankee shavetail,but I couldn’t git him to rum,” said the Sergeant.
The orderly looked Reuben up and down spitting out some tobacco juice. “Ya’ll be down heah tryin’ to take our slaves and burn us out.” He remarked. “We gonna learn ya not to mess with the South. Cunnel Forrest ‘ill make shore ‘nuf of that.”
“Colonel Forrest?” Reuben asked.
“Jesse Forrest, Cunnel C.S.A. Ya’ll mighta hear-ed of his brother, Gen’l Forrest.”
So, the 16th Tennessee was commanded by Nathan Bedford Forrest’s little brother, Reuben thought. Mighta figured.
“He’s a-waitn’ fer ya.” said the orderly as he escorted Reuben inside the tent. They stopped and stood at attention while the Colonel shuffled through something in a box with the letters US stenciled on it.
The Colonel looked up.
“Have a seat Yank,” he said pointing to a camp stool. Then he made a sweeping gesture that included the tent and its contents. “Yer Army sure travels in luxury. Maybe that’s why we keep whuppin’ you all.”
Reuben was quickly sizing up the Commander of the 16th. He spoke with a more cultured tone than the lowly Confederate soldiers he had previously encountered. He was an aristocrat. Unlike the average Confederate, he owned and traded slaves. For him, the war was about maintaining the lucrative family business. His features looked familiar. Back in Memphis, a photograph of his brother had been circulated among the troopers. It was said that General Sherman would richly reward the man who killed or captured the Devil Forrest. Perhaps his head was worth a furlough or a promotion. One could dream.
“Get us a couple of cups of that good Yankee coffee!” barked the Colonel at the orderly. Turning his gaze back to Reuben, he commented, “Due to your cursed embargo, we don’t see much coffee in the South.”
Reuben again suppressed a grin. At least some of the Union’s war strategy was working.
“You boys are from Iowa?” queried Colonel Forrest as Reuben nodded.
“Whereabouts?”
“Appanoose County.”
“I had friends who did business with a feller from up there before the War. Did you know Ward Coltrane? Is he fighting for the Federals now?”
Reuben shook his head no. He wasn’t giving this Confederate any information on his old friend Ward Coltrane. Coltrane once ran the cooper works in Centerville. His barrels were highly prized. Before the war, he had moved his cooperage to East Tennessee where he made barrels for the whisky distillers. When the War broke out, he returned to Iowa leaving his operation in the charge of his trusted foreman. If Forrest found out Coltrane was a Captain in the 1st Iowa Infantry, his assets could be seized and forfeited.
The orderly returned with the coffee. It was weak. The Confederates had to make it last as long as they could. The blockade wasn’t letting up any time soon.
“How long will it take Sturgis to get back to Memphis?”
“Not long,” Reuben answered noncommittally.
“Reckon he’s finished?”
“I hope so,” Reuben answered revealing his disgust of his former Commander.
“Where is Sherman headed for next?”
“Probably somewhere you don’t want him to be.”
“You aren’t very talkative, are you?”
“I never been much fer words.”
“O.K., Captain Rice will be interviewing the rest of your men. He may even recruit a few of them for our army.”
“My men ain’t bounty jumpers!” Reuben hissed. “You won’t be galvanizin’ any of ‘em.”
“We’ll see,” snickered Colonel Forrest. “A few months in Winder’s pens might change their minds.”
Reuben knew that the commander of the Confederate prison system was General Winder. He was said to be killing more Yankees than most Rebel field commanders.
“I don’t think so. Where are we going from here Sir?”
“Good question. We’re waiting for more rolling stock on the Mobile and Ohio. You’ll be taken to a holding camp at Cahaba, Alabama.”
Reuben chuckled at the mention of the railroad. He’d spent the last Summer tearing up Southern railroads. Too bad they missed the tracks to Tupelo.
“And from there?”
“I figure your men will go to Andersonville and you’ll be headed to the Officer’s Prison at Macon,” said Colonel Forrest.
Reuben shuddered. Andersonville had only been open for a few months, but its reputation was well-known in the North. Men were starving and dying by the hundreds in the makeshift camp. It wasn’t right for him to go to a better place while his men suffered in a hellhole like Andersonville.
“Sir, I’d like to stay with my men.”
The Colonel looked at Reuben in surprise.
“Sorry, but we’ve learned to keep the officers separate from the men. We had some difficulties with that. Your men don’t need help organizing riots and such.”
Reuben shook his head wistfully.
“Your men will be O.K. as soon as the exchange gets up and running again. Your General Butler is the problem. He keeps insisting we include Negroes in the exchange. He can’t seem to understand that they are our property, not soldiers.”
Rueben grimaced. The exchange system was hopelessly broken. It was going to be a long war.
“The Provost will take you boys to Tupelo tomorrow to wait for transportation. I wish you well. Orderly! Take the Lieutenant back to the holding area.”
Reuben stood.
“You are dismissed.”
Reuben looked down at his sleeve as the guard returned him to his men. He could still see the faded outline where his Sergeant’s chevrons had once been. They had come off when he was commissioned a Lieutenant two months before. He had spent over 3 years as an enlisted man. The men going to Andersonville were not only his friends and neighbors, they were his responsibility.
As soon as the guard turned to leave, Reuben reached up. He grabbed one of his epaulets and thought for a moment. The Rebels weren’t very good at keeping track of things. Hell, they hadn’t even taken roll yet. Then he grasped the epaulet firmly and ripped it off. A second later the other one was gone. He tossed them into some bushes.
Reuben DeLay would enter the Confederate prison system as a Private.
He was going to Andersonville!
LDT June 6, ‘24
NOTES ON HISTORICAL ACCURACY:
-Reuben DeLay enlisted in the 3rd Iowa Volunteer Cavalry during the Civil War.
-The 3rd Iowa was part of a Union force under General Samuel Sturgis at the Battle of Brice’s Crossroads on June 10, 1864.
-Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest decisively defeated the much larger Union force.
-On the day after the battle 2nd Lt. Reuben DeLay’s I Company was defending the rear of the retreating Yankee column near Ripley, Mississippi.
-The 16th Tennessee Cavalry, whose Deputy Commander was Lt Col Jesse Forrest, captured Reuben and 26 others. Private Cronin was wounded in the leg during the encounter.
-This hypothetical interrogation is based on the accounts of other captured Union soldiers.
-Ward Coltrane is a fictional character. The Confederacy did seize the assets of those who were disloyal to their cause.
-The Confederates took advantage of the breakdown in the prisoner exchange system to recruit POWs for their army. One of the men captured with Reuben DeLay may have taken them up on their offer. He was returned to Union control early and given a dishonorable discharge. I suspect that he joined the Confederate Army and deserted at the first opportunity. His comrades did not view him as a traitor or deserter.
-Records show Reuben DeLay was a prisoner at Andersonville even though he was an officer. Prisoner John McElroy reported that in August of 1864 two to three hundred Lieutenants and Captains were identified among the Andersonville prisoners and sent to Camp Oglethorpe near Macon, Georgia. Reuben must have been one of them. He spent the rest of the War in Officer prisons.
This photo came from a bar in Malta. It is a Who’s Who of Montana rodeo cowboys. Back row: Vic Lasorna. Dave Pecora, Jr., Sonny Oxhart, Dave Mathews, Ernie Trottier, Ike Blatter, Blair Gayens. Front: Royal Ness, Rex Thill. Kid Curry Rodeo 1948 or 49. Courtesy Jeanne Thill Shippen.
“You entered the bull riding?” Mom exploded. “What the hell are you thinking of? You’re a bronc rider and a damned good one, Why the hell do you want to get yourself killed?”
The questions were good ones. Dad was still a pretty good bronc rider. I had never even seen him ride a bull before. He was a bit too small according to my brothers who knew everything about rodeos and cowboys.
“Hold on now,” Dad said. “This string ain’t all that good and Hagen won’t be riding.” Johnny Hagen was Dad’s long-time rodeo buddy. They had rodeoed all over Montana, the Dakotas, and Wyoming. Though their winnings were long gone, they had the championship buckles to show for many a good ride.
Now Hagen had moved up in rodeo. He was promoting the Kid Curry Rodeo in Malta. We had come up a few weeks earlier to help fix the chutes and arena. There was great anticipation for what might become the biggest rodeo in the Milk River Country. Hagen seemed confident he could pull it off.
For years Dad’s rodeo earnings had supplemented the family income. In the early days, that was important. He didn’t make much as a ranch hand. Staying employed through the winter wasn’t guaranteed. Sometimes he resorted to catching and selling wild horses to get by. The good ones he broke. The rest went to the glue factory.
Things were different now. Dad was on the railroad. He’d worked his way up from the roundhouse to Locomotive Fireman. His promotion to Engineer was imminent. The checks were good, steady too.
We kids were as happy as Mom was upset. Dad was gonna ride a snorting, bucking, mean old Brahma bull. Why he hadn’t entered the Bareback and Saddle Bronc events never crossed our minds.
We got to the rodeo early. Dad had a habit of coaching the younger cowboys and helping to get the stock sorted and penned. As we pulled up to the gate, the County Sheriff stopped us.
“Hey Rex, we found a horse with your brand down by the Breaks. What do you want to do with it?”
The horse was Mexican Joe. He was once a damn good cow pony. When Dad got the job on the railroad, he left Mexican Joe at a friend’s ranch. The horse got away and had been running wild for a decade.
“I guess you better send him to the slaughterhouse Sheriff. I s’pose he’ll wind up dog food unless some furriner eats him.”
The Sheriff shook his head. There wasn’t much use for an old cow pony these days.
Dad parked the Hudson right next to the arena. “Betcha can’t do that at Madison Square Garden,” one of my brothers commented. Small rodeos do have their advantages. Later, my brothers would sit on the top rail and watch the events. All but one event that is. With time to kill, we made our way to the play area. No, this wasn’t the kind of playground with swings and teeter-totters. This was a place where little cowboys learned their craft. A barrel was suspended on ropes between four poles. One cowboy wannabe would climb onto the barrel while his saddle pals worked the ropes. If they didn’t like you, you could get bucked off damn fast. Luckily, my brothers didn’t want to send me back to the car bawlin’.
We returned to the arena when we heard the announcer’s voice crackling on the loudspeakers, Dad was gone, probably helping with the chutes. Mom was sitting on the hood of the Hudson. My brothers climbed to the top of the board fence. They’d have the best view in the house.
“Can I sit on the fence too?” I pleaded.
Mom looked at me for a stern second. “Only for the Calf roping and Barrel Racing.” She said.
Wow! I was going to be close to at least some of the action.
The bronc riding was good. Most of the competitors were old friends of Dad’s. About half of them made the whistle. The pickup men were there to grab the riders and land them smoothly on their feet. They hauled one young cowboy off with a broken leg. One cowboy scored an 86 on Great Falls Brown, one of the better saddle broncs. Jim Billingsley tied his calf in near record time. The barrel racers wore big white Stetsons and bright satin blouses. Their horses could turn on a dime. I had to get off the fence each time there was a rough stock event. It was hot. Mom got us some Cokes.
The announcer told jokes and bantered back and forth with the clown. There was furious activity as the cowboys loaded the chutes for each new event.
At last, the event we had all been waiting for was announced. Bull riding! The announcer assured us the bulls were the meanest, toughest, buckingest bulls this side of the Missouri. The clown rolled his padded barrel into the arena. He would spend the next 20 minutes ducking behind it. A clown needs to be quick on his feet. He has to be brave enough to put himself between a downed cowboy and a dangerous bull.
I chuckled as the pick-up man rode by ordering my brothers off the fence. We’d watch this event from the ground. At least they were there to school me on the finer points of bull riding. One by one, the bulls came out bucking furiously. Most of the riders were getting dumped unceremoniously on the freshly raked dirt of the arena. Eight seconds is a long, long time.
Finally, we heard the announcement we had all been waiting for.
“Here’s Rex Thill from Glasgow on Old Snowball in Chute Number Four.” We could see Dad straddling the chute, buck rein in hand. The bull was a nasty one. We caught glimpses of him through the wooden chute. He was a dirty white with big bloodshot eyes and a snotty nose. The chute hands were having a tough time keeping him positioned. It was taking Dad forever to mount. He’d start to lower himself and the bull would try to climb out of the chute. The hands pushed and shoved while Dad worked the buck rein. Old Snowball was an uncooperative cuss.
Finally, the bull did something no one expected. Old Snowball just laid down in the chute. Men poked at him through the gate. Others helped Dad tug on the buckrein. Try as they might, they couldn’t get him back on his feet. The other competitors were getting antsy. So were the spectators.
Someone yelled, “Turn him out!” The chute hands grimly tried once more. Old Snowball wouldn’t budge. Finally, the judge signaled to Dad. The show must go on. The ride wouldn’t happen. Dad climbed over the back of the chute. The announcer said he’d get a re-ride at the end of the go-round. We were disappointed but hoped he’d draw a better bull next time.
The bull riding wasn’t even finished when Dad returned to the car.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your re-ride?” my brothers asked.
Dad shook his head. “It’s over. I’ve ridden my last rodeo.”
A look of relief passed over Mom’s face as we boys protested. Dad was our hero. He did things, big things, brave things. Things others couldn’t do. We bragged about him and showed off his buckles. Could it all be over?
Dad wouldn’t be visiting the pay window to collect his winnings. We loaded into the car and headed home. A Hudson full of glum little kids rolled down Highway Two. Mom sang along happily with the radio. Dad thought about the old days. Wolf Point, Cheyenne, Calgary.
A week later, we found out that the gate receipts hadn’t been enough to cover the expenses of the rodeo. The winning cowboys learned that Hagen’s checks were no good. They had traveled far, paid their entry fees, and risked their necks for nothing. Dad chuckled. He was about the only friend Hagen had left in the country.
Outlaws, Outrages and Outright Lies 