Saddlebag Dispatches—Winter 2022

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

In the months ahead, new issues will focus on a variety of famous historical locations throughout the West, and we’ll be seeking original stories,

Summer 2023—DodgeCity,Kansas • Winter 2023—CochiseCounty,Arizona Summer 2024—Leadville,Colorado • Winter 2024—CaliforniaGoldRushCountry Summer 2025—Deadwood,SouthDakota • Winter 2025—KansasCity,Missouri

Please note that the deadline for submissions is February1 for all Summer issues and August1 for all Winter issues.

SaddlebagDispatches is seeking original, previously-unpublished short stories, serial novels, poetry, and nonfiction articles about the West. These will have themes of open country, unforgiving nature, struggles to survive and settle the land, freedom from authority, cooperation with fellow adventurers, and other experiences that human beings encounter on the frontier. Traditional westerns are set west of the Mississippi River between the end of the American Civil War and the turn of the twentieth century. The western is not limited to that time, however. The essence is openness and struggle. These things are happening now as much as they were in the years gone by. Short fiction and nonfiction submissions should be no more than 5,000 word in length and no less than 2,000 words. Due to space considerations, poetry submissions should be no longer than one page in length (approximately 30 lines).

QUERY LETTER: Put this in the e-mail message: In the first paragraph, give the title of the work and specify whether it is fiction, poetry, or nonfiction. If the latter, give the subject. The second paragraph should be a biography between one hundred and fifty and two hundred words.

MANUSCRIPT FORMATTING: All documents must be in Times New Roman, twelve-point font, double spaced, with one-inch margins all around. Do not include extra space between paragraphs. Do not write in all caps, and avoid excessive use of italics, bold, and exclamation marks. Files must be in .doc, or docx format. Fiction manuscripts should be in standard manuscript format. For instructions and examples see https://www.shunn.net/format/story.html.

OTHER ATTACHMENTS: Please also submit any pictures related to your manuscript. All photos must be high-resolution (at least 300 dpi) and include a photo caption and credit, if necessary.

Manuscripts will be edited for grammar and spelling. Submit to submissions@saddlebagdispatches.com with your name in the subject line.

INEVER GOT TO see the big man under the even bigger Stetson, hear his booming voice welcoming one and all, or the sound of his great laugh. Yet these things are with me every day. For nearly six years now, I’ve lived my life as a writer, editor, and publisher in the shadow of the late great Dusty Richards. This magazine was his brainchild. He and his friend and publisher, Casey Cowan, founded SaddlebagDispatches to give a voice to the many western writers who were finding fewer markets for their work.

As the Managing Editor, and more recently, the Publisher, as well as the curator of Dusty’s works both published and unpublished, I feel in awe of the man, the writer, and the sharer of knowledge and wisdom that he was. Dusty watches over this enterprise, and I’m constantly aware of his presence. He was ever ready to take a young, or not so young, writer under his wing and give them a push in the right direction. He always found a kind word for them and for their work. I hope we’re carrying on that tradition.

So, nearly five years after his untimely passing, this issue of Saddlebag Dispatches is intended as a lasting tribute to one of the truly great men of his generation. In these pages, you will find tributes from those who knew him, those who were lucky enough to work with him or travel with him, and those whose lives he touched for the better. You will also find some of Dusty’s own short stories, most previously unpublished or published only in small

regional publications. We are proud to offer them to the world at last.

In addition to the loss of Dusty and his wife, Pat, Saddlebag was hit hard again this past summer with the untimely passing of our regular contributor, Michael McLean. Michael was one of the first authors whose work I fell in love with as an editor here. Whether a mystery or a hardcore western story, Michael always delivered superb copy and a thrilling story. He has become the gold standard we hold other writers to when deciding which stories we will publish and which we will pass on. Michael was the consummate professional in his craft, and he is sorely missed.

In addition to our losses, we’ve also had some marvelous gains. Nature loves a balance, and she hasn’t shorted us yet. This year we welcome some great new assets to our staff.

First and foremost, we’re proud to announce the promotion of Bob Giel to Managing Editor. A retired businessman and prolific Western writer, Bob will now be taking the reins in terms of acquisitions and editorial direction for the magazine. He will be joined by his new Assistant Managing Editor Anthony Wood, who is a prolific historical author in his own right, as well as a winner of the coveted Will Rogers Medallion for his short story, “Not So Long in the Tooth.”

The one and only Chris Enss has joined as Advertising Sales Manager and Marketing Director Many, if not most of our readers, will know her from her

work as President of Western Writers of America or Executive Director of the Will Rogers Medallion Awards as well as her award-winning nonfiction. Her vision and ideas are already making a huge difference.

Also joining us as our official Saddlebag Dispatches Poet Laureate is Marleen Bussma. Many of you are already familiar with her work. Marleen won the 2018 Spur Award for “She Saddles Her Own Horse.”

She recently won a Will Rogers Silver Medallion for her book of poetry, DeepTracks, which also won the Cowboy Poetry Book of the Year from the International Western Music Association.

But that’s not even all of our new additions. Rachel Patterson has joined the staff as our new Social Media Manager—look for her posts on our new Saddlebag Instagram page—talented California-based artist Victoria Marble has taken on the mantle of Chief Illustrator, and Waynetta Ausmus, longtime WRMA board member and the voice behind LuckyMe Productions, has signed on to become our newest Staff Writer. To say that we lucked out in recruiting such a talented crop of new associates would be the understatement of the year.

In addition to all the new personnel, we are proud to announce that we will be starting a series of western anthologies to expand the market for western short stories even more. These will be themed to coincide with the themes of our upcoming issues beginning with Dodge City for our Summer 2023 issue.

We are also exceptionally excited to announce that Saddlebag Dispatches is now a paying market for short fiction, as will be the anthologies. For more information, see the Wanted page on our website at www.saddlebagdispatches.com.

Finally, a reminder that our 3rd Annual Mustang Award for Western Flash Fiction will open for submissions on February 1st and close on March 1st. This year, we are offering a $50 cash prize and publication to the winner. Entries must be received during the submission period and are limited to 1,000 words each. We look forward to some great stories.

So, pull up a log, pour yourself a cup from the camp pot, and enjoy some great western writing.

DENNIS DOTY Publisher

by GEORGE “CLAY”MITCHELL & VICTORIA MARBLE

CATTLE DRIVE VETERAN AND former Texas Ranger, Phil Guthrey, is done with law enforcement. While searching the Arizona Territory for ranch work, he rides into the middle of a range war. After saving Dan Bridges from certain death against a pair of gun hands, he learns Dan and his seventeen-year-old twin sister, Cally, were orphaned when their father was murdered just days prior. Now, Guthrey must employ all the skill acquired as a Ranger to find the killer while protecting the county’s small ranchers from wealthy cattleman, Harvey Whitmore, and his gang of rustlers trying to force them off their range.

Dusty Richards’s knack for western colloquialisms gives Chaparral Range War the captivating feel of the old Saturday matinee westerns. Unfortunately, like so many of the old Saturday matinee westerns, the thin plot never develops any knuckle-biting tension. While the outlaws find plenty of opportunity to attack the local citizens, they avoid Phil and Cally. The little tension that does exist in the story is generated by the romantic sub-plot. In this the author predictably employs the expected conventions. Thus, in regard to both the main plot and the sub-plot, the ending lacks the surprise of a wonderful read.

The lack of tension dulls what might have been an enjoyable story and leaves the reader as unsatis-

fied as a cowboy come late to supper. Fortunately, the western charm is the jam that recues an otherwise mediocre biscuit.

Rating: 3 Nuggets (out of 5)

ChaparralRangeWar by Dusty Richards

Rowena’sHellion by Velda Brotherton

Copyright 2014, Published by The Wild Rose Press

ROWENA DUNCAN LOVES LORD Blair Prescot, the man who saved her and her sister from a harrowing life at St Ann’s, a bleak English nunnery. Haunted by the demons of a war long past, though, Blair seems to hardly notice her. Worse, only whiskey relieves the pain from the ghostly memories of friends and love horribly lost to him. But alcohol creates its own fiend, driving him to fits of rage and wild, drunken rides in the dead of night. Somehow Rowena must find a way to break through the walls he has surrounded himself with to reveal the love that’s right in front of him while also navigating a new life in the rough and tumble post-Civil War American West.

In Rowena’s Hellion, Velda Brotherton paints vivid portraits of a strong, determined woman and the tortured war hero she loves. Afraid his alcoholism and PTSD would only cause her hurt and bodily injury, Blair pushes away the love he realizes he also has for her. And just as Rowena seems to be breaking down the walls he has erected, Brotherton stirs in so many outside troubles to create almost unbearable tension on the blossoming relationship, threatening to drive them far apart.

The author has created a wonderful story loaded with conflict and a taut plot with more twists than a narrow mountain switchback trail. One warning— the narrative draws readers into Rowena and Blair’s

very personal lives with a few tastefully done scenes that are not meant for minors. Overall, this novel was well crafted and worth the read.

.

Rating: 4 Nuggets (out of 5)

WithaKissIDie by Rod Miller

Copyright 2022, Five Star Publishing

JOHN BAKER AND ALEX Fancher lead trains of emigrants from Arkansas to a new life in California. The safest route leads them through a Mormon territory in turmoil. Baker’s ward, Polly Alden, falls in love with Mormon teen, Tom Langford, but circumstances, a series of bad decisions, and the worst of human nature set them, the emigrants, and the Mormon militia on a collision course culminating with the September 11, 1857, Mountain Meadow Massacre.

“The inspiration for With a Kiss I Die goes back ca Convention in Helena, Montana, the already legendary Western author, Dusty Richards, approached me, a writer of comparably little experiselves at Mountain Meadows on the fateful day of the massacre where, as Dusty put it, we would ry, and I would write the Mormon perspective, Well, Dusty always had more ideas than he When we lost him to a car accident in 2018, I toyed with the idea of writing both sides of the With a Kiss I Die

Miller displays both the better and darker natures of people, often manifested within the same characters. Weaving the lives of well-crafted fictional characters

through the narrative of historical events, the author creates a cautionary tale of the risk of dehumanizing others—using perceived misdeeds as justification for our own bad acts.

History’s constraints often make the endings of historical novels difficult. This book was no different. The story itself was well-written and engaging, however, I found what could have been a gut-wrenching ending instead felt lacking.

Rating: 3 Nuggets (out of 5)

DUST BILLOWED BEHIND THE white pickup as it traversed a series of creosote bush and mesquite-covered hills. Slowing at the crest of one rise, it bounced across a rusted cattle guard. Drooping strands of barbed wire clung to withered posts that stretched to the horizon in both directions.

As Shannon Hall started down the dirt road, it became apparent a fair-sized arroyo cut through the bottom of the valley ahead. Where the road crossed the arroyo, an old brown pickup stood idle alongside a sheriff’s department truck, an SUV, and what looked like two dirt bikes. Several people gathered around the pickup.

Pulling in behind the SUV, she took a deep breath and drew a baseball cap down over shortcropped auburn hair. Intelligent grey eyes looked into the rearview mirror to make sure she appeared reasonably professional for the group now focused on her arrival. Satisfied, she pushed the door open and stepped into the hot desert afternoon. As a New Mexico Field Deputy Medical Investigator, this was where the work began.

Separating from the group, Sergeant Sam Jacobs greeted her. “Howdy, Doc. Ready for a short hike?”

Shannon smiled at the greeting. She wasn’t a medical doctor, but once a few members of the Laguna County Sheriff’s Department found out she had a doctorate in forensic archaeology, “Doc” had become her nickname. “Sure, Sam. What’s going on?” she asked the older officer.

“Interesting situation. The kids here were spending their Saturday riding dirt bikes up and down these arroyos. They found the body and used a cell phone to call it in. Tommy got here about an hour ago, took a look, and called for us. I got here just a bit before you, and the rancher arrived somewhere in between. Tommy knows the rancher. Dated his daughter a while back.”

Deputy Tommy Sanchez moved toward the duo. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he said in his usual jovial, but always respectful, manner. A decorated veteran of the conflict in Afghanistan, he was a local hero and youngest member of the sheriff’s department.

“Hi, Tommy. Do you have details on this?”

Sam stepped back and allowed Sanchez to talk.

“These kids were running their bikes down the arroyo.” He pointed at the motorcycle tracks in the sand. “About a quarter mile from here, a side drain -

age comes in. That’s where the tall kid, Jamie Cooke, spotted boots and legs poking out of the mud and brush. They didn’t mess with the scene and called 911.” In a hushed voice, he added, “The other kid is Diné. You know, Navajo. He wants nothing to do with a dead person.”

“What about him?” Shannon motioned toward the dour-looking man leaning on the pickup.

“Jim Iverson. He holds grazing rights for this land from the Bureau of Land Management.” Sanchez led her over to the rancher and made introductions.

She had met several of his kind in southeastern New Mexico. It took a lot of hard work and a lot of acres to run a few dozen head of cattle and maybe some horses in dry country. The condition of the cattle guard and fencing confirmed her notion that the life of a rancher hereabouts was hard and getting ahead unlikely. Only a lucky few prospered when oil was discovered on their privately owned land.

“Mister Iverson, I understand you got here after Deputy Sanchez?” she asked.

“That’s right. I was coming back from checking on Willy Benson at the old line shack up by the north water tank when I spotted Tommy—uh, Deputy Sanchez—and these kids, so I stopped to see what was going on.”

“Willy Benson? I haven’t heard that name before.”

“He travels around a lot,” Iverson said. “Ed Benson and I were pretty tight until he passed on. Ed owned the neighboring ranch to the north… till the bank took it. Willy keeps to himself, so I let him stay up there. His daddy taught him to live off the land, you know, hunt and such. He makes pretty decent knives and fake Indian stuff to sell to tourists. I guess that’s why he travels around.” The rancher kicked at a chunk of limestone rock with a scuffed boot and stopped talking.

Ignoring the feeling that he didn’t take to a female asking questions, Shannon merely smiled. “Thanks for the information.”

Turning away, she motioned to Sam Jacobs. “Sam, I’ll go with Tommy and have a look. I’m guessing you’ll want to stay here with Mister Iverson and the boys and get their statements?”

“Love to,” he replied, happy to expend minimal effort in the July heat.

SCRUNCHING THROUGH THE SAND and grav -

el of the wash, with a backpack forensic kit slung over her shoulder, Shannon thought back to her first conversation with Sheriff Matt Gibson. After explaining that she had a doctorate in forensic archaeology and an undergraduate degree in criminal justice, she described owning a small consulting business to perform cultural or archeological assessments for resource companies and developers. However, a desire to be associated with law enforcement had prompted her to become a New Mexico Field Deputy Medical Investigator, or FDMI. The pool of FDMIs in Laguna County was small, but she had a passion for details and knew what was needed to understand and help resolve unusual or violent deaths. That was why FDMIs were called on scene to investigate and preserve evidence.

The sheriff had studied her for a few moments, and then asked why she would want to be in southeast New Mexico. Her answer was simple—family. Her grandparents had raised her and then retired to the north in Chavez County. He considered that, and then grinned. “It will be a pleasure for all of us to work with you, Miss Hall.”

“Please, Shannon will do fine,” she replied quickly, looking him straight in the eye. The words produced a wide smile on his weathered face.

Since that day, she had learned that the sheriff was an excellent judge of people. And, although elected to the position in part by the county’s “good old boys,” he was a respected and dedicated lawman. Gibson knew times weren’t changing—they had changed. With his coaching, she had worked hard and quickly became the field deputy medical investigator of choice for crime scenes nobody else wanted.

Head down, absorbed in her reverie, she almost ran into Tommy Sanchez. They had arrived.

A pair of hiking boots protruded over a rocky drop-off three feet above the bottom of the arroyo proper. The body looked as if it had sluiced down the side drainage like a log and hung up on rocks as the water receded. Facedown, the remains were engulfed by sand and mud, obscured by tumbleweeds blown

in by the ever-present wind. “Tommy, when was the last heavy rainfall around here?”

“Gosh, that would have been in April or early May. Had some real gullywashers, too. It’s been darn dry ever since.”

Shannon took out a notebook and looked at her watch. “I’m officially recording the time of death as of now.”

“So noted, ma’am.” Sanchez nodded as she made the official pronouncement as part of her duties.

Replacing the notebook, she began evaluating the scene and taking photos of the physical setting. Meanwhile, Sanchez pulled on a pair of work gloves and started to remove brush from around the lifeless form.

“Hold on, Tommy. Let me get organized here,”

Hoping to do something besides stand around, Sanchez spoke up. “I was going to move the brush since you already took a bunch of photos. The sun’s not getting any higher.”

Glancing at the position of the sun above the western horizon, she frowned and then reconsidered. “You’re right. Go ahead. Just watch for anything unusual.”

Even though she doubted much evidence would be preserved, if not found directly on the body, protocol dictated that she had to investigate and then make sure the body was properly packaged and transported to Albuquerque for autopsy.

Happy with the decision, Sanchez resumed work only to stop a few minutes later. “Uh, ma’am, I think you better see this.”

The deputy had pulled weeds away from the body, exposing portions of the upper torso and trunk. Climbing up to Tommy’s level, she looked where he was pointing. A partially open leather wallet stuck out of the hip pocket. Though dirty, sunlight reflected gold from the badge within.

Shannon Hall keyed the mike on her radio. “Sam, we have a real bad situation. Get word to Sheriff Gibson and let him know that it appears the deceased is a law enforcement officer, don’t know whose yet. And let your office know we’re going to need portable light generator sets, more deputies, and a lot of coffee. Hopefully the van from Albuquerque is rolling. This is going to take a while.”

LEAVING A DECENT GRAVEL road behind, the truck crawled and bounced up a rough, rocky track so they could check out Iverson’s statement about Willy Benson. Finally, the “line shack” materialized in the form of a thirty-foot-long, aluminum-sided trailer. Wondering how it got to this place stretched Shannon’s imagination as much as believing that a person actually lived inside. Rusted, mostly indescribable stuff formed a sort of protective barrier around the trailer. A scattered handful of rusted cars and pickup trucks had long since merged with the desert. Only a beat-up Chevy baking in the sun suggested the possibility of life.

“Hello, the house,” Sergeant Sam Jacobs called out. Moving a bit closer, he repeated the call. Suddenly, the door screeched open on rusting hinges and the enclosure belched a uniquely foul odor. Standing in the doorway, blinking rapid-fire in the

bright light, a scruffy-looking man in his mid-thirties looked out at the pair.

“What do y’all want?” he asked in a surly tone.

Sam Jacobs took the lead. “You Willy Benson?”

The man nodded. “Yeah.”

“We’d like to come in and ask you a few questions.”

Shannon kept silent, observing everything, especially the man’s body language.

“The place is a mess,” Benson replied as he scratched at a thin, scabby arm extending from a sweat-stained tee shirt. “I been away for a while. Ain’t had a chance to straighten things up.”

“No problem,” Jacobs said. “We see lots of untidy places. Yours is probably no worse.”

Benson considered that for a few moments. “Well, I guess it’ll be okay,” he said, stepping back inside.

Jacobs followed, hand resting on his pistol, watching the man for any sign of movement toward a weapon, but he just plopped down on a worn out chair and leered at Shannon as she entered the trailer.

“You live here alone?” Jacobs asked, looking around and catching Shannon wrinkle her nose at the smell of the place.

“Yeah. Don’t like people all that much.”

“Your rancher friend, Iverson, says you’re an artistic guy. You make Indian things to sell to tourists.”

With what passed for a glimmer of pride, the man opened up a bit. “Yeah, that’s where I been, out to Arizona and back selling to tourist traps and rock shops. City folks don’t know the difference and kids like that sort of stuff. Here, take a look,” he said, jumping up from the chair.

As Jacobs gripped his handgun, Shannon’s hand instinctively slipped to the Smith & Wesson .40 caliber pistol she carried on such trips with the sheriff’s team. But the man was only retrieving a small box from what served as a table.

He held out the box for them all to see. Several pink and grey arrowheads rested on a folded napkin. Surprised, she spoke for the first time. “Those are

really well done, like small works of art. And you make them?”

“Yes, ma’am. I sit outside in the afternoon shade and work on them,” he answered, still scratching his arm, an apparent side effect of methamphetamine use that also complemented his missing teeth.

That hint of pride again. His answer also explained all the small rock chips she had observed when approaching the trailer. Peering into the box again, she noticed each arrowhead had two small notches in the middle of the base. She had seen a lot of arrowheads in her archaeological studies, but had never seen a style like that. “Are those little notches there on purpose?”

Benson grinned. “That’s my special thing,” he explained. “Kind of like an artist signing a painting.”

“Makes sense.” Shannon nodded in agreement.

Growing impatient, Sam Jacobs pushed the conversation back on track. “A couple of kids found a body in a wash a few miles down the road from here. You know or hear anything about that?”

Shannon watched the change come over Benson. Returning the box to the table, he flopped in the chair again. “Nope. Don’t know nothing about that. Like I said, I been gone selling stuff. I got names of places that paid me. You can check.”

Jacobs wanted to press the guy, but looked to Shannon and saw her shrug her shoulders ever so slightly. He closed the notebook he had been making notes in and shoved it in his pocket. “We may have a few more questions. You planning any more trips soon?”

“Nah,” Benson said, obviously relieved that they appeared to be leaving. “I have to build my stock back up.”

Jacobs nodded and moved toward the open door with Shannon following, both eager for the fresh, clean air beyond.

and motives. She didn’t really need to, as the sheriff’s department had competent detectives led by Captain Morales, but it was part of her passion. Unexpectedly, her phone chirped. Concentration broken, she picked up the receiver and was rewarded by a friendly voice. the Chief Medical Investigator said. “I wanted to talk to you per-

“That sounds a bit ominous, sir.” -

“Really?” She heard the surprise in her own voice. -

THREE DAYS HAD ELAPSED since the body had been transported to the Department of Pathology at New Mexico University’s Department of Medicine. The deceased was a fish-and-game officer who had disappeared three months earlier. The problem was that he had gone missing north of Ruidoso, nearly two hundred miles from where his remains were found. Despite an unsettling feeling, the visit to Willy Benson had proven unproductive. Without clues, Shannon was trying to make sense of the case by using a spreadsheet posing alternative scenarios

nary examination, I discovered a chest wound that indimurder weapon was part of an honest-to-goodness, handStraight shot through the left ventricle, then lodged very

Shannon’s mind raced as she mentally arranged pieces of the puzzle. “Joel, do you have that arrowhead?”

“I’ll make you a wager that it has two little triangular notches in its base.”

Alvarez was bewildered. “How on earth could you

“Gut feeling.”

“I’m thinking I need to thank you, say goodbye, and call the sheriff.”

Shannon ended the call and dialed Sheriff Matt Gibson. Gibson listened intently as she related the information from Alvarez and her theory. He had to get to Santa Fe, but knowing her interest in the case, was she comfortable going with Jacobs and Sanchez to finish the affair?

“Tell them I’ll meet them at the office.”

Jostling once again up the rocky slope, Shannon rode with Sam Jacobs, followed closely by Deputy Tommy Sanchez. Relating her theory and the autopsy findings to the pair before departing, she was pleased they were in agreement.

Arriving at the shabby trailer, they parked in a defensive position, armed with assault rifles. Once more, Sam Jacobs hailed the man inside. From a position of safety behind one of the trucks, Shannon watched as the door grated open in protest and Willy Benson stepped into the open with a pump-action shotgun in hand.

“Willy Benson, you’re under arrest for the murder of game officer Phil Watterman. Put the damn shotgun down. Now!”

Benson looked bewildered, but immediately took in the sight of the assault rifles and pushed the shotgun away from him into the dirt.

“Down on your knees and hands on your head,” Jacobs barked.

Complying, Benson kneeled and put hands on his head as Sanchez moved forward, covered by Jacobs.

With both shotgun and Benson secured, Sanchez pulled the man to his feet as Jacobs and Shannon walked forward. The three men watched as she

moved to the side of the trailer and scooped something from the ground.

Returning to the trio, she held out her palm to reveal a handful of small pink and grey bits of rock— flakes discarded when making arrowheads.

With a look of curiosity, Benson’s eyes met hers. “You see, Willy, the devil is in the details. In the end, most criminals are done in by the little things.”

“LITTLE THINGS” was originally published in our Saddlebag Dispatches,peared in the very same issue announcing the passing of

ERNIE MARSH (IN COSTUME AS BASS REEVES) POSES WITH YELLOWSTONE CREATOR TAYLOR SHERIDAN DURING THE EASTERN DISTRICT OF TEXAS BAR ASSOCIATION CONFERENCE. MARSH HAD A SMALL ROLE IN SHERIDAN’S YELLOWSTONE PREQUEL, 1883.

BRINGING THE WEST TO LIFE

“CLAY” MITCHELL

FEATURE

ERNEST “ERNIE” MARSH WANTS to bring the history of the Old West and Bass Reeves to life for future generations.

Marsh has only been acting for about two years since he retired from law enforcement in California. As someone who could ride a horse, he began to participate in some of the reenactments, from the staging of life in the Old West to Civil War battles. Later, he started getting work as a background extra, which “took off real nice from there.”

“It was good to visit the movie sets and talk to them and get the feel of what it takes to make a western and make it great,” Marsh said. “We need to bring in the young folks to westerns. I grew up watching westerns. There were many movies and TV shows from the 1940s to the 60s. Most people don’t realize that some of those guys lived that life before they hung up their gunbelts to be in a movie. When I retired, I wanted to do that again. I got the opportunity and ran at it the best I could.”

Their Story Is Just Starting

There has been a resurgence in telling more stories about the cowboys and the Old West. Among these is the sharing of Black stories and characters about the expansion of the American West. From LaMonica Garrett’s Thomas in Taylor Sheridan’s 1883 to Jaymes Samuel’s The Harder They Fall, the inclusion of Black actors even in the background of other movies and television shows begins to illustrate that our history is more diverse than we were led to believe.

And for Marsh, it’s just scratching the surface.

“When it came to history, Blacks didn’t write the books. They didn’t write the newspaper articles,” Marsh said. “People who worked the cattle were slaves. That labor as a cowboy was getting up in the morning and being up for four or five days. After the Civil War, they became the mavericks. It was one of the few jobs a Black man could get to be paid a day’s wage. We don’t see those stories in the mainstream

Ernest Marsh

GEORGE

media. Hopefully, with the attention coming to Bass Reeves, these stories will come to light.

“He’ll be a household name, and his story doesn’t need to be embellished. If the word ‘integrity’ had a picture, it would be Bass Reeves.”

Meet Bass Reeves

Marsh found himself either learning or relying on his knowledge and skills from his law enforcement career to build himself a new one. In his early days of reenacting, Marsh often portrayed Mountain Man Jim Beckwourth as a fur trader and explorer. During an event as Beckwourth, someone mentioned to Marsh that he looked a lot like Bass Reeves. Not knowing much about the legendary marshal, Marsh found himself at the library, and soon he had another person he could embody.

Marsh’s journey to learn about Reeves has brought him to San Antonio as he looks into what made Reeves the person who was trusted to arrest over 3,000 criminals who may have fled into the Oklahoma territory for Judge Isaac Parker. Marsh said that Bass must have carried a lot of integrity to accomplish

man of that time. He was born a slave, and many of them didn’t know how to read or write,” Marsh said. “He had to carry a big stick and walk softly like a bulldog. Where did he come from? And how did he acquire this skill set that allowed him always to get his man? I can think back to my career as an investigator, and people came to me with information. I treated them like I wanted to be treated. When I started my research on Bass, he was much the same.

“He knew he couldn’t read or write, but he had two ears and a mouth, and he used those in proportion to absorb everything in his environment to get his man. He was a valet to legislators and being around those people, he learned how to talk and listen. There were times in the course of an investigation I would be on the phone with someone, and when we met, they would often say ‘that my voice and how I looked didn’t match up.’ I imagine Bass was a lot like that.”

Judge Parker and Bass Reeves

Marsh said that there must have been a level of trust between Reeves and Parker.

slave, learned how to be a tracker, knew the Oklahoma Territory and spoke Cherokee and other Native American languages. Parker, born into a family of means in Ohio, was educated as a lawyer and appointed as a judge by President Ulysses S. Grant.

“Bass was a resource for Parker. They used him like any other person who could scout, track, go in to get their man, and come out safely,” Marsh said. “At the time Reeves was trying to make a life for himself near Van Buren. I’m sure some detractors didn’t want Bass as a marshal by saying he couldn’t read, but Parker somehow knew Bass was the right man for the job. Parker wasn’t hiring schoolteachers.

“If you have a handicap, the other senses become sharpened. Bass couldn’t read or write, so he may have developed total recall and photographic memory. He had a writ or warrant to arrest someone, but he

Love of Westerns

Marsh always had a love for westerns. His mom was from Waco, Texas, his dad from Louisiana. So, the ties to the West never left him. Even in law enforcement, he continued to ride, train and sell horses.

“I still grew up country,” Marsh said. “I went hunting and fishing. We had a garden. We didn’t have livestock, but we had dogs and occasionally chickens. There were woods to explore near where I lived, near present-day Candlestick Park.”

He has worked in 12 westerns in 12 months. Marsh would watch westerns on television, and he bought his first horse when he was 20.

“I raised, trained, and sold them,” said Marsh. “It just reaches in your blood, and I became a wrangler, cowboy, and horse rider.

“I was one of the few guys in high school who

MARSH HAS PLAYED IN A FEW SMALL FILM PRODUCTIONS LIKE “COUNTING BULLETS” AND “A GUIDE TO GUNFIGHTERS OF THE WILD WEST” AS WELL AS PLAYING BASS REEVES IN “THE RIGHTEOUS TWELVE” AND UNCREDITED PARTS IN “THE HARDER THEY FALL,” “YELLOWSTONE,” “INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE,” AND “1883.”

music. The other guy was from Oklahoma. I loved it so much. In the Bay Area, you didn’t have much country music, but once you lost those signals, you could pick up on the small, weaker ones, the country music stations. I listened to those stations with my father and grandfather.”

Riding

to the next town

Marsh was in San Antonio doing some additional research on Bass Reeves. He was in a couple of scenes in Taylor Sheridan’s He said he enjoyed his time working with Tim McGraw, Faith Hill, and Taylor Sheridan.

With a few credits under his belt, including Taylor Sheridan’s 1883 and recently released TheRighteous Twelve, where he portrays Bass Reeves, Marsh is looking forward to what the future has in store for him. He spent time with Sheridan as the two compared their lives growing up and how 1883 serves as the lead-in for Sheridan’s latest project, 1883:BassReeves.

“I thanked Taylor Sheridan personally for bringing Bass’s story to the screen,” Marsh said. “It’s been done a little bit before, but I think Taylor will get it right this time. It won’t be long before there’s an explosion of Bass Reeves movies and projects.”

Marsh said he’s even consulting on a U.K. project about Bass Reeves. He met David Oyelowo, the Beitish actor who will be portraying Reeves for Sheridan’s new series.

“When I met David and his wife, she said that I looked more like Bass Reeves than he did,” Marsh said with a laugh. “I wished I had started this sooner. There’s nothing like being on a movie set and getting in a saddle.”

—GEORGE “CLAY” MITCHELL is an award-winning reporter and photographer, as well as a founding partner of Saddlebag Dispatches and its parent company, Oghma Creative Media, where he serves as Chief Development O cer.

PORTRAYING JAMES BECKWOURTH WAS ERNIE MARSH’S FIRST FORAY INTO BRINGING THE PEOPLE AND THE STORIES OF THE AMERICAN WEST TO LIFE.

MARSH TRAVELS THE COUNTRY TO TELL BASS REEVES’ STORY AND PROMOTE BLACK COWBOYS’ OFTEN FORGOTTEN OR IGNORED ROLE IN SHAPING THE AMERICAN WEST.

in remembrance

DUSTY RICHARDS

1937—2018

WHAT CAN WE say about Dusty? The real question is what can’t you say about him? To say that he was larger than life is the grandest of understatements. He was an irresistible force and an unmovable object all rolled into one, a personality wider than the western skies he wrote about. He was an eternal optimist, a man who woke up each and every day renewed and ready for the next job, the next challenge, the next good fight. He was a father, a patriarch, a mentor of the first order. He toured the country teaching and encouraging new and experienced writers alike, challenging them to follow his lead, tell the next inspiring story, pen the next Great American Novel. He was a fighter, a lover, a joker, an entrepreneur, a canny businessman, a television and radio personality, a famous rodeo announcer, a cowboy, and, perhaps above all else, a master storyteller. Dusty was everything that fit under his trademark ten-gallon hat and so much more, and we could keep writing for a year and not do him justice. He was a legend, and one that touched the lives of many, many thousands—possibly millions—of people.

He’s sitting around that big ol’ campfire in the sky right now, his wife, Pat, at his side, swapping stories with the likes of Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour. He’d want us to keep his memory alive by following his lead. By chasing the sunset with all that we’ve got, pursuing our dream, living with passion, and cherishing the ones we love. Our beloved Ranch Boss may be gone, but he, and his larger-than-life personality, will never— ever —be forgotten.

DUSTY’S FUNERAL DUSTY’S FUNERAL

Dusty’s Funeral vicki fainted at mister bill’s funeral overheated (in november) perry sang sweet beulah land at daddy’s and the reverend stan read robert louis stevenson at the graveside memories of other funerals touch me on the back row how will i remember Dusty’s 10 cowboy hats on laps and one on Dusty’s casket

Dusty’s Funeral vicki fainted at mister bill’s funeral overheated (in november) perry sang sweet beulah land at daddy’s and the reverend stan read robert louis stevenson at the graveside memories of other funerals touch me on the back row how will i remember Dusty’s 10 cowboy hats on laps and one on Dusty’s casket

140 chairs all occupied by some i know though none well mostly strangers (Dustynevermetastranger) and this thought saddens me still on the back row how many stories did Dusty tell them that i never heard and never will

140 chairs all occupied by some i know though none well mostly strangers (Dustynevermetastranger) and this thought saddens me still on the back row stories did Dusty tell them that i never heard and never will

DUSTY DOING ONE OF THE THINGS HE DID BEST: GIVING WRITING ADVICE DURING A WRITERS’ RETREAT IN 2016.

THE GIFT OF HOSPITALITY

SADDLEBAG FEATURE

BARBARA CLOUSE Saddlebag Dispatches Research Director

SOME PEOPLE HAVE A natural ability to make others feel welcome, comfortable, and familiar in peaceful surroundings. Dusty and Pat Richards were the kindest greeters in their home, at conferences, or at their book table in community arts and crafts settings. They had the blessed “gift of hospitality” with a servant’s heart.

The first time I met Dusty and Pat was in about 1984. We were attending a writer’s conference at the Mount Sequoyah Retreat and Conference Center, Fayetteville, Arkansas. This was my first trip away from home in a very long time and my first seminar for writers. The entire group was especially informative and treated me like a member of their family. I am sure the other guests felt the same way, and it was a tremendous boost for me.

I complained that I felt like I was the only one interested in becoming an author in my area. Dusty suggested that I go home and start a new club for poets, writers, and future authors. He encouraged me to

book a room at the library for a meeting, put an ad in the paper, and prepare a short speech. He admitted that is how many of their writers’ groups in northwest Arkansas got started. Invitations to meetings also in Missouri became a treat to the fledgling members of our club in Oklahoma.

Dusty and Pat often opened their home for Saturday morning writers’ meetings in those early years. Their local critique group met several times a month, but the weekend was the only time I could attend. We called them the “potluck” meetings because everyone was encouraged to bring a dish and stay and share lunch with the crowd. After a short business meeting, everyone had a chance to share news about their latest projects or story ideas. Sometimes we read short passages out loud or asked for help with certain aspects of a story. Dusty kept the momentum of the meeting moving forward, so we could finish and have lunch on time.

Pat was always in the nearby kitchen getting ready

CONFERENCE IN

(TOP LEFT).

for our “buffet,” and we took turns helping her prepare the spread. After a word of prayer, Dusty invited us to line up and enjoy the feast. Dusty and Pat both made sure everyone got plenty of chow and relaxed after the meeting. Some of us took a short tour of Pat’s gardens and flowers, admiring the view from the wrap-around deck of their lakeside home. A few of us had to leave shortly after the meal since we had to drive several hours to get home. Others would stay long into the afternoon, talking, sharing ideas about characters and books. Pat kept the coffee pot full, so their guests would stay as long as they needed, to share with Dusty, the long-winded storyteller.

After I heard about the Ozark Creative Writers (OCW) Conference at Eureka Springs, Arkansas, I encouraged my local writers’ club to make their reservations. The first time I attended the OCW seminar, I knew it would be a great experience for beginning writers. Dusty and Pat were always there, greeting the new folks, directing first-timers to the meeting rooms, and giving out details of the conference and the layout of the center.

Sometimes Dusty would take a group out to lunch, showing us the local places that had great food. Often, Pat would invite the spouses of the writer attendees for a sight-seeing adventure since some of the guests were from out of state. On occasion, Pat would announce she was going to play at the Cherokee Nation Casino, which happened to be west of Springdale, Arkansas, at the state line in West Siloam Springs, Oklahoma.

Through the years of the Ozark Creative Writers conferences, Dusty was a leader and inspiration for all of us. His book table was generally in the same

DUSTY AND BARBARA DURING THE NORTHWEST ARKANSAS WRITERS’ WORKSHOP FREE

1984

DUSTY PRESENTS THE OXBOW AWARD FOR BEST WESTERN SHORT STORY TO BARBARA AT THE OZARK CREATIVE WRITERS CONFERENCE IN EUREKA SPRINGS, AR. (TOP RIGHT).

location every October at the convention center. Pat tended the table, sitting there with Dusty’s western paperbacks spread out around her, keeping an eye on things. She was so gracious, visiting with the writers, authors, and guests, sharing the news about recent publications. Pat was always kind enough to listen to all of us with our tales of woe and frustration in the book publishing business. She would smile and nod, as if to say, “I’ve heard this story before.”

If a person sat down at the table with Pat, we would hear her side of the story about Dusty and their adventures around the country. She shared with us the places they traveled to the Western Writers of America Conventions, the writers’ meetings, and speaking engagements he had. They made friends all over the western states and were often asked to return the next year, to not only share his knowledge and experiences, but also to sit by their campfire, maybe ride horses, go fishing, or watch a rodeo.

Dusty and Pat spread kindness everywhere they set up their table to sell his books. They seemed just happy to be there, under their white canopy, to offer some shade. On one occasion in Tahlequah, Oklahoma, the city hosted an arts and crafts fair, with booths to entertain the children as well as adults. Our Tahlequah Writers group read books to the gathered crowd of kids. We helped with arts and crafts projects and showcased our club members.

Dusty spoke to a small audience about his books and shared some of his stories about the world of writing, publishing, and marketing. Some of us read poetry and talked about our projects, encouraging others about our club of authors. In the middle of the afternoon, the weather changed dramatically. A huge wind blew in from nowhere, and people started scrambling.

LINDA QUALLS, BARBARA CLOUSE, AND PAT RICHARDS

TAKE TIME OUT TO SMILE FOR THE CAMERA DURING THE CONFERENCE (BOTTOM RIGHT).

Dusty and Pat rushed to their canopy tent, to take it down and rescue the books scattered across the table. Soon after the sharp wind came the rain, all the visitors to the community event ran for cover. Dusty and Pat sat in their truck while the shower passed, his novels safely tucked inside with them. I saw them laughing about it, as we all tried to find safety in the huge city tent nearby. A moment later, the wind and little shower stopped, and the blue sky returned. That brief interruption did not phase Dusty and Pat at all. They smiled and waved to us as they drove away, finished for their day of book sales in Oklahoma.

The gift of hospitality never disappeared or faded from Dusty and Pat Richards. With new friends or old acquaintances, they made guests feel welcome in their presence. Through the years, we shared meals together, attended writers’ meetings, assisted at seminars, and jumped in at gab sessions when they found a vacant spot to visit.

Dusty shared his knowledge of his spontaneous “on the job training” in learning how to not only write a novel, but publish a book, negotiate with agents, publishers, and editors, plus hone his marketing skills to make sales. He encouraged everyone to just write the story and worry about the editing later. He believed in teaching others what he had learned the hard way. Both Dusty and Pat gifted us with their friendship and their warm hospitality, and we were all blessed by their example.

have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of

—1 Peter 4:9-10)

BARBARA CLOUSE is retired from the Department dening, growing gourds for art projects, genealogy, and

DUSTY RICHARDS AND JODI THOMAS CELEBRATING HIS THIRD WESTERN WRITERS OF AMERICA SPUR AWARD WIN FOR THE NOVEL THE MUSTANGER AND THE LADY IN 2016.

FEATURE

MY FRIEND, THE COWBOY

IMET DUSTY RICHARDS at the Oklahoma Writers’ Federation (OWFI) conference in the early 90s. As we all know, Dusty never met a stranger. Dusty was always willing to help beginning writers. He had the biggest critique group I’ve ever seen. But we decided we would have a retreat for writers at Red River, New Mexico. So, the weekend before Halloween, people just showed up with no agenda whatsoever. They simply showed up to read to each other and talk.

Usually, Dusty would call me in September and say, “When are we meeting on the Red, Kid?” We picked a date and showed up, and so did thirty or forty other writers. Some days when the conference was over, Dusty and I would critique each other’s book, and our spouses would take off to Taos and gamble all day.

Dusty didn’t know much about writing romance, and I didn’t know much about writing Westerns, but we were always each other’s biggest cheerleader.

I never saw Dusty angry, and he gave great big bear hugs. From having bar-b-que dinners for all the writers in town to telling the worst jokes ever heard, he was a real pleasure to be around.

One summer he called me and said he was up for two Spurs from WWA, and I said, “Where is the convention, and I’ll be there.” Linda Broday and I drove to Kansas City, Missouri and had a great time watching him accept a Spur Award—his third—for his 150th novel, My friend Dusty Richards was a big man with an even bigger heart.

JODI THOMAS is the legendary New York Times bestsellng romance and mainstream author with over 2006) and was inducted into the Romance Writers Hall

Dusty’s longtime friend and fellow author,

JODI THOMAS

THAT HOT AFTERNOON, REAGAN Harold tied up his worn-out cowpony and packhorse in the dusty West Kansas town of Kurtsville to observe it all. It seemed a typical crossroads settlement out on the grassy rolling country—some false front stores, two saloons, a doctor, a bank, livery and freight office, a mercantile, a harness and saddle repair shop, a gunsmith, a dress and hat shop, a newspaper, and a house of ill repute above the Irish Saloon, a few houses scattered around, and some shacks about, plus an adobe jail. Not many adobe structures that far north that he could recall, but there was a saloon up at Fort Laramie made out of it. Not enough trees around these parts. Folks used what was at hand and cheap, especially since a jail was at public expense.

He moved his horse and the packhorse to the livery. If the price wasn’t too high, he planned to stable them. When he dropped out of the saddle, a whiskered man came out and spoke to him.

“You spending the night or buying the town?”

“Pard, I’m just staying the night. When will the railroad get here?”

“Huh?”

“When they building a railroad though this town?”

“I never even heard of such plans.”

“Well, I won’t buy the place, then.” He threw the stirrup up on the seat and went to jerking out the sweat soaked latigoes on the girth. “How much is a one-night stay for my ponies cost?”

“Two bits apiece. A dollar if I rub them down and feed them some grain.”

“Is my junk safe here to leave overnight?”

“Safe as Wells Fargo. Where you headed?”

“San Antonio, I hope. I spent my last cold winter in the ice and snow.”

“Easy enough to get there if you got the ass that will stay in the saddle that long.”

“You give free philosophy lessons, too?”

Obviously, the man didn’tknow the word, and Reagan’s mouth kept getting drier. “I’ll take the dollar deal.”

“I’ll unload ’em, feed ’em and rub ’em down.”

“I will see you in the morning.”

“There’s free bunks for customers back there.” The old man gave a head toss down the shadowy alleyway.

“I’ll probably use it—later.”

He hitched up his gun belt and pants out of hab-

it. There was no gun law sign posted at the outside coming down the road out of Nebraska, so he made no move to disarm. The Irish Saloon’s bat wing doors were well oiled. He pushed them open for a breath of sourness and cigar stink that reminded him of a thousand more such dens.

Three card players looked up under the candlelight wagon wheel. A white-aproned bartender nodded hello and welcomed him to Kurtsville with a what’ll it be stranger?

“Cold beer?” he asked, satisfied the gamblers and the bar keep were near the sum of population in the place. “Yeah.”

“A big mug of your best.”

“Aye, and I got you one coming. Guess you’re passing through?”

“The old man at the livery acted like the whole place was for sale.”

“Thurman. That’s his name. He may be branching out into real estate sales. That’ll be fifteen cents.”

Reagan put two quarters on the bar. “I’ll drink more later. That a friendly card game?”

“They’ll let you play.”

The beer was not cold but cool at least. What more could he expect in this God forsaken place in late summer? Montana, they always had ice, Nebraska some, Kansas by this time, most of it had melted.

“May I join you?” he asked with his mug in hand. The bald-headed man looked up and blinked his eyes. “You must be a drover from the cut of your clothes?”

“Reagan’s my name.”

“Have a seat, Ranken.”

“Charlie, his name is the mustached man on Charlie’s right corrected him.

“Excuse me, sir. He’s Carp, and the one on my left is Ben. Draw poker, ante a quarter. Five card draw.”

From his front pocket he drew out some crumbled small bills and more change to put on the felt spot. He anted the quarter, and they nodded. Charlie

dealt the hand. He planned to keep a jack and queen then draw three cards. Carp bid a quarter, and he stayed. Ben raised it a quarter, and they drew cards. He had a pair of jacks, bet a quarter, and the others folded. No get rich game. He tossed in his cards and raked in the small pot.

“Is there a cafe in town?” he asked, about even on his money a few hours later. Won a few. Lost some, too. That’s the way it usually went.

“Yeah, it’s behind here in that weathered looking building. She serves good food, and she washes all her dishes in hot soapy water and rinses them. Laura Glenn is her name,” Carp informed him.

“You never told us where you’re headed, Reagan?”

“San Antonio. Spent my last winter in the snow.”

“That’ll be nice... if you like brown-skinned women,” Charlie said.

“Pard, I like them all.”

The gamblers laughed.

“You from that country?”

“I’ve been everywhere from the Rio Bravo to the Canadian Rockies.”

“You have a calloused ass then,” Carp said.

“That’s the truth.” His belly was telling him he needed some grub. “She have food all day long?”

“Or she’ll fix it for you. Good gal.”

He thanked them, left the nickel tip out of his fifty cents to Earl on the bar. He reset his felt hat, hitched his pants and gun belt up, then struck out for the faded gray building. He crossed the porch and could smell the cooking. A homey aroma of something good, and the woman behind the counter was a good-size woman—not fat but with a full figure and forty.

“Welcome to my place. What can I do for you?”

“I been greeted friendly everywhere I go in this here town.”

“We’re all friendly, God fearing people. The bad guys ain’t that way.”

“You get bad guys out here?”

She was standing above him. “We get our share.

Law’s far apart, and they roam around looking for victims all the time. But folks like you passing through are no harm and may leave fifty cents behind.”

“What do you have that’s easy?”

“Sliced fresh bread?”

“Butter and jelly?”

She nodded. “And some roasted beef cooked slow with carrots and potatoes.”

“They told me over at the Irish that you were the best in town.”

“Ha! Now they’ll expect a special price at breakfast.”

“I guess you have regular customers?”

“Keeps my doors open. Cowboys come once a month, sometimes twice. They’ve eat enough beans at chuck they say they could out blow the north wind.”

“Or play Yankee Doodle on their backside bugle?”

She laughed. “That’s funny. You must have been there yourself.”

He watched her move off to get his food. There’d be lots of places south of here, but few he’d find as friendly as this. A place you’d like to remain—except for the fact that it snowed here. That was a dealbreaker for him. Come morning, he’d be headed on south. The tambourines and guitars called him, those señoritas shaking their backsides, dancing and clapping castanets. Bexar County, Texas, was where he was headed, and by God, nothing was going to stop him.

The meal was as good as he’d hoped. Afterward, he found his bedroll and decided to sleep beyond the livery under the roof of a porch on an empty shack. No bed bugs there, he figured.

The sun went down, and he closed his eyes. His deal was made with the horse hostler to saddle and load his ponies before dawn.

From somewhere in the depth of his sleep, the sounds of two women talking in the night awoke him. His fist closed on the wood handle of his .45.

“He’s sleeping out here somewhere.”

“Who you looking for?” he asked.

“Oh!” Both jumped back and hugged each other.

“Sir, I’m Laura. This is Katrina. I fed you supper,” she spoke in a stage whisper.

“Yes. A nice meal.”

“Katrina needs to get out of here. She has a horse. But needs some help to get away. I told her you might help her.”

“She dodging the law?”

“No. No. A man thinks he owns her, and he’s a big man in places. She needs a way out of here.”

“Will he send his men after her?”

Laura hesitated. “We don’t know. He left on a trip today, and she ran away.”

“Is that his horse she stole?”

Laura looked at the other woman. “Is it?”

The smaller woman he could hardly make out in the starlight, spoke in a low voice, “It is his horse, yes.”

“Then she’ll be sought as a horse thief. Leave the horse here. We’ll need a new one, and a different outfit for her. You got any money?” He got up facing the other way, redoing his shirttail and re-buttoning his pants. Then he strapped on his six-gun and swept up his hat.

“She hasn’t. But I have some.”

“The old man can sell her a horse and a saddle. Then they’ll have no legal grounds for arresting her.”

“I understand.”

“When will they know she’s missing?”

The girl said, “When the sun comes up.”

“We better get busy, then. I’ll go wake the hostler, but don’t turn on any lights or draw any attention to yourselves.” He rolled up his bedroll. “And we’ll get the hell gone.”

“You’re an angel,” Laura said. “She needs out of here. She can tell you all about it later. She’s like a daughter to me, you know.”

The hostler found her a gentle enough horse after they swore him to secrecy. He added a saddle that she could ride on, and they loaded his packsaddle and panniers on the bay horse and saddled his dun. In the middle of the aisle with a small candle lamp, Laura hugged him and her too.

“God be with you two. And be careful. And Reagan? I owe you one.”

“We ain’t got away yet.”

They swept southward in the coolest part of the day ahead. The stars shone bright, and they loped easy making as few tracks as he could on the wagon road and trying not to stumble in the darkness. So, when

daylight crept up, they were ten to fifteen miles away from the village.

The girl wore a felt hat with a rawhide chinstrap in case the wind swept it off. A proverbial south wind would rise all day in their faces until, by afternoon, it would be a threat.

They watered their horses in a small stream and remounted again to start the push to move on. He decided she must be a teenager, slender made. Her dark hair was shoulder length, and she brushed it often while riding.

When they dropped into a walk the next time, he rode in beside her.

“Tell me the particulars of this deal?”

“Scott Walker owns the Three W Ranch. I met him at some horse races. He told me he was single, and I believed him. He took me to one of his outlying ranches out here and said he’d marry me when he found time, but he had lots of business to handle.

“I was dumb and accepted it all. But I learned after

a few months that he had a wife and bigger ranch. I was one of his women who he used when convenient, and there was no leaving or they’d drag you back and chain you up like you were a slave.

“I had all I could stand of him. They were off at roundup, and I’d never threatened to leave, so they thought I was content. I saddled that horse and rode to see if Laura could help me get away. She thought you might do that—and, Reagan, I appreciate so much what you’re doing for me. While I can’t pay you now, I will pay you back for all of this.”

“Fine. We just need to be on the move headed south all the time.”

“I will do my best to do that, so I can get away from him holding me in that bondage.”

“You have people?”

“Yes, but I am certain, by now, they have written me off as a wanton woman.”

He shook his head. There was no answer to that. No bridge back in most cases. Most families shunned

such victims as no longer their family members. A dark hole for a woman to reach out for help and forced them to accept a role in prostitution to survive.

First nightfall they found an abandoned homestead away from the road, built a small fire out of dried buffalo or cow chips to heat coffee, and ate jerky. They watered horses with a pump and prepared to bathe in cold water in a wooden tub.

He told her she could bathe first, and he’d go off and for her to whistle when she was complete. She protested. “I am afraid. You have seen women before. Stay here.”

“All right. But remember... you’ll have to ride and live with me until we find you a safe house or place. I can’t guarantee you won’t arouse me.”

“I will accept that as reality.”

“So, you know I warned you.” He had found some cedar to whittle on. To avoid spying on her he whittled and whittled until she was redressed and told him it was his turn.

He took a bath with no regard and knew she was close. What could he do with her? Deliver her to a convent? No, she would not get along with them. Somehow, he must haul her to safety, and only God knew where that place was.

A week on the road, and they’d covered miles of endless grassland, and he wondered if there was going to be any pursuit. They were in the Oklahoma Territory portion of land close to the Texas panhandle, he figured. Around that time, his packhorse went lame. They stopped at a small rancher’s outfit, and he swapped for another unshod horse and ten bucks. He borrowed a horseshoeing rasp and trimmed his hard, striped hooves down to a clean edge and not very deep.

The man asked him casually if Katrina was his wife.

Reagan shook his head. “Just someone I met needed moved.”

The rancher accepted that, gave her another glance with a I’d like to have her look, and went on about his business. So did the pair. The ex-packhorse whinnied to his departing companions.

“You’re set on San Antonio?” she asked one day when they stopped to water the horses.

“That’s my plan. You got any?”

“Anywhere, just so that damn Scott Walker can’t use my body ever again.”

He didn’t comment. Reagan knew she hated him, but now he knew how deep it went. Without a word they mounted up for the thousandth time, and they rode on.

They crossed the Red River on a ferry, and when they were in Texas over on the high ground, he reined up and looked back at the crossing where they came from in the big cottonwood trees beside the stump choked river.

“You ever use this crossing going north?”

“Many a time, sister. I had a big red roan ox with a bell, and he’d lead them across there swimming his heart out and shake water off him on that far bank and trudge on to market.”

“Lots of memories, huh?”

“You thought about a place to stake you out a spot?”

“You want rid of your extra baggage?”

“I wouldn’t call you that. You ain’t been no trouble. You never nagged me. I couldn’t believe you were a woman and not doing that. You told me you only had one thing you never wanted to happen to you again— that never come about on my watch.”

“That I’m grateful for, too. How old are you?”

“Old enough to know better is all.”

“How many years since you were born?”

“How old you think I am?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Close. Why?”

“You’re set to live in San Antonio?”

“In that country, anyway. What in the hell are you getting at?”

“Well what’cha going to do for a living?”

“Trade cattle. Whatever I can get along on.”

“How big of a place would you need?”

“Hell, I don’t know.”

“What would a place up there around Kerrville and Mason cost?”

“Oh, a good one, maybe four to six thousand.”

“You need a partner?”

“I hadn’t planned on taking one.” His horse stomped his hoof, impatient to go on.

“You got the money to buy one?”

“I got a portion of it. Why?”

“I’ve got a portion of it, too.”

“Where?”

“You ain’t ever hugged me have you?” She swung down out of the saddle.

He frowned and dismounted, swinging his horse around to catch her. He barely held her in his arms, and he felt the thick money belt around her waist. But he saw her mouth calling on him to kiss her. He hadn’t had that calling like since he was a boy growing up south of there.

“You steal that?”

“He owed me that money for stealing my innocence. I replaced his money belt one night with another one when he was asleep. He ain’t needed any money, so I bet he hasn’t opened the new one. Probably why he didn’t send anyone after me. He may never figure out which one of his many women traded him belts.”

“You want to partner on a place?”

Her blue eyes twinkled, and she nodded big as all get out, then she squeezed his face and kissed him until he was dizzy. “You’re a great guy. Yes, I want to partner on a ranch. You pick it. I’d like a river on it to wade in some time.”

“That’ll be nice. Okay, then. Let’s find a land agent and look at some places.”

Lester Hale was the man recommended to him. Lester had a two-seat buggy, and the three looked for days up and down hills and forded shallow cricks. One sunny day when they were further north than before, he showed them a fancy secluded place.

The house had open, rough, hand-hewn beams and limestone rock construction under pecan trees, a section of mostly rolling grass and the Guadalupe River. Completely furnished in Texas ranch style. But it cost ten thousand dollars.

He knew she was excited. They had a private meeting while Lester stayed up by the house with the Mexican caretaker.

“Damn, Reagan, this needs to be our place.”

“We won’t have money to stock it or buy cattle if we pay that much.”

“How many people do you think have the cash to buy a ranch?”

“I don’t know?”

“Not many. Not in Texas, either. Have Lester make them an offer of eight thousand—cash.”

They told Lester their offer. The agent just shook his head. “That lawyer in San Antonio won’t accept that for the estate.”

“Ask him,” she insisted.

“It won’t work.”

“Lester, it may be a nice place for a cow buyer, but it’s too far from town to live up here and then work in San Antonio.”

He agreed, made the offer, and four days later, the agent drove the buggy at breakneck speed out to the place they’d rented. “You did it!”

A FEW DAYS LATER, they stood looking down the grassy bottom at the silver river shimmering in the sun that first day from the stone laid front porch.

After a while. Katrina sat on the stoop and frowned. “You know, I ain’t upset, but so far, all we’ve ever done is kiss.”

Reagan shrugged. “Way you talked about Scott Walker, I kind of thought you were opposed to doing much more.”

She punched him in the belly. “I never said that about

Then she kissed him. And later, in their new bed, they consummated their partnership. He asked her to marry him later that night, and she agreed—conditional to when the time was right.

REAGAN GOT BUSY TRADING cattle. He hired two cowboys, and three men to garden, fix fence, mow and farm some. He also stocked the place with cows and calves, and gave the their crew notice there might be some bad men come by one day and to keep some loaded firearms right handy at all times—just in case

The day it happened, he was at his desk writing to a man in Fort Worth about some Shorthorn bulls he had a chance to buy from a man when he heard her say. “Oh, my God, Reagan, he’s here.”

Reagan took the short-barreled Colt out of the desk drawer. Who?

He held the gun against his leg and about ran into her face first in the hallway.

“Who’s here?”

“Look out the front door. It is him, on a horse. Scott Walker.”

When he got to the open door, he saw a big, smug man sitting cross-armed on a big fancy horse. Like him to ride a hot-blooded stallion to show off.

“You’re trespassing on my ranch.”

“I figure it’s mine now, seeing it was bought with the money that bitch stole from me.”

“You figure wrong. And since she’s my wife now, you can settle all accounts with me.”

“Mister, she ever wants to see you again, tell her to get her ass out here.”

“Stay where you’re at,” He said over his shoulder back into the house.

Walker scowled. “You ain’t listening to me.”

“You’re smarter than you look, partner. You’re right. I’m not. Because my men have you and your crew covered with two rifles and three shotguns. You’d best drop your guns real slow and be on your way.”

“Bullshit.”

Those were Walker’s final words. Reagan shot him twice in the chest. The stallion reared up and pulled the bastard over backwards on top of him. When his head hit a rock, it finished him off. By the time his body hit the ground, the four men he’d brought with him lay dead or dying, as well, each riddled with holes under the hooves of their frightened mounts.

The acrid smell of gunsmoke drifted out over the river and away.

A YEAR LATER, KATRINA found they were going to have a baby, so, the time finally being right, they got married.

A few months before the boy was born—the first of what would eventually be three—Katrina sent for Laura and told her she had a better job for her in Texas than running that old café. Laura ended up moving in with them, taking over the job of running the house and playing grandmother. Maybe they weren’t blood kin, perhaps, but they bonded together as family, and that’s what really counted.

The newspaper accounts concerning Walker’s disappearance said he was reported to have had thousands of dollars in cash on him the day he vanished, and that he’d probably been robbed. The accounts made no exaggeration about that, either. In fact, it was a lower amount than he’d actually had strapped on his corpse. His generous contribution—Reagan and Katrina came to call it Walker’s wedding gift to them—had funded the purchase of two more large ranches for their sons when they got big enough to handle them on their own.

ABOUT A WEEK LATER, a deputy came out to ask if they had seen a man called Scott Walker or any of his men in the area. He was missing, and someone had found his stallion, bridleless and with a bloodsoaked saddle, out west of Kerrville.

Reagan shook his head. “You’re our first visitor out here in almost two months, Deputy. Kerrville’s a long way off. I doubt he was ever around these parts.”

A HEART BlackHat And A GOLDEN HEART GOLDEN

story by VELDA BROTHERTON

DUSTY RICHARDS was no more than a toddler when he looked up from play and said to his mom in no uncertain terms, “I WANT TO BE A COWBOY.”

With visions of her rst son growing up to be an old cowboy bum, she continued to tell herself that all little boys had this dream at one time. HE’D SURELY OUTGROW IT.

When is it we know who we are and who we want to be? Maybe he would outgrow this wish. BUT HE DIDN’T….

SADDLEBAG COVER STORY

THROUGH THE YEARS , Dusty clearly remembered his mom’s worry, but he continued to voice the hope of becoming a cowboy. e early years are ours when shared through our parents’ remembrances. Photographs passed around, stories told and retold at family reunions.

Born Ronald Lee Richards in Chicago in 1937, as he grew older, he attended every Saturday Matinee to see Hoppy, Roy, and Gene, then he’d go home and repeat, “I’m going to be a cowboy when I grow up.”

At seven years old, he sat on a real horse at a real roundup and watched calves being branded on the Peterson Ranch in Othello, Washington. e experience might as well have branded him for life. Despite doing her best not to raise a cowboy, it seemed Mom wasn’t having much luck. She spoke often of his desire as well as her fear. When he told the story, he always quoted what she’d said about how he would grow up to become an old cowboy bum.

Unlike many youngsters who discarded their broomstick horses for other careers as they reached adulthood, his desire to remain in pursuit of the cowboy dream did not let go. Ever.

Being born in Chicago didn’t exactly help much, but his family unknowingly did him a favor by moving west to Arizona when he was thirteen. His mother’s fear that he might become a cowboy stepped closer to reality. He had discovered Heaven.

One of his favorite stories to tell on himself touches on the writer he would become. When he was in high school, the English teacher assigned students to write a western story, and many of his pals complained. Said they didn’t know how to write. And certainly not about cowboys. Here he saw an opportunity to make some cash. He could tell stories, and he could write them as well.

Each student eagerly paid him a dollar to write them a western, and the teacher never caught on. Happy classmates all came away with a good grade. A satis ed young Dusty would repeat

“If you’re out in front and you’re not being shot at, you’re not doing your job.”

THE QUINTISSENTIAL DUSTY RICHARDS, DURING THE NWAWW FREE CONFERENCE AT MOUNT SEQUOYAH IN 1984.

the business several years in a row. e teacher didn’t know the di erence, for she’d never read a western. Could he claim to be a published writer? Perhaps not. Yet it was a story he loved to tell.

After graduating college, he partnered up with two friends, and in 1960 they bought a ranch in Arkansas. His childhood dream nudged much closer to a reality. And that carried him toward another accomplishment he did not yet expect—one linked in an odd way to his early story—writing. It seems that the small nearby town of Winslow supported a school, and it had lost one of its teachers mid-term. After moving to Arkansas, Dusty had taught one year in a nearby town. e teacher in Winslow asked if he could handle a room lled with rough, trouble-making country boys. His reply was a chuckle. I have to wonder if he had any brief thoughts of that younger Dusty and what he pulled on his teacher. He never mentioned it. Being, by this time, a muscular, well-built man, he could handle those students. Of course, he could. And he did. ere was no more trouble from that classroom the remainder of the year. He went on to teach for two years there. And he never revealed exactly how he tamed down those rowdy boys. Obviously a story he intended to keep to himself.

After he met and married his wife, Pat, in 1961, the couple bought a home and settled down near Beaver Lake in Northwest Arkansas, another step closer to his childhood goal. Nearby Springdale attracts cowboys galore with its annual rodeo. What young man wanting to be a cowboy wouldn’t appreciate that? Horses. Steers. Bucking Broncs, Bulldogging. Cowboys.

DUSTY IN THE SADDLE FOR THE ANNUAL RODEO OF THE OZARKS 4TH OF JULY PARADE, WHICH HE RODE IN FOR MANY YEARS. .

Well, it wasn’t long until Dusty was involved. No, he didn’t enter the bronc busting or bull dogging. His involvement was on the board of directors where he served for twenty years. Much of that time he announced the rodeo. For most of those years, he also rode horseback in the annual parade, seated in a welltooled leather saddle, wearing a ne black Stetson and Justin boots. Once he drove a wagon from Springdale to Ft. Smith in a promotional event for the country’s bicentennial celebration. For years he DJ’d a television show and reported ranch and farm news. He was living his dream amid the country life.

He spent his working hours with Tyson Food. He was what he jokingly called a chicken doctor. is meant he was on the road most of the time visiting poultry farms to see that the chickens remained healthy. He never rode a bucking bronc, was certainly not a bulldogger, but he lived the life of a true cowboy taking part in the functions of the rodeo and his ranch.

It’s possible that without the in uence of his two daughters, Rhonda and Anna, he might not have become a writer. Who knows? But he continued to tell stories to everyone who enjoyed listening to them. And he talked to his family about how he’d really like to write some of them. Yet he felt embarrassed continuing to dream of what might be unreal. Who’d want to read what he could write? Finally, his daughters talked him into putting his stories down on paper.

After several years of their urging, he ful lled the lifelong dream by writing and submitting three Western books to a little-known publisher who never replied to the submission. When he contacted the company he was told they would not be published. ough disappointed, it was too late. He was hooked on writing. And so, he wrote the book that would become his rst truly published work with a reputable publisher but not until he hooked up with a few women writers who would soon become known as Dusty’s Girls. It was a life that

DUSTY ABOARD THE BUCKBOARD WAGON HE HELPED DRIVE FROM SPRINGDALE TO FORT SMITH, ARKANSAS, AS PART OF THE U.S. BICENTENNIAL CELEBRATION IN 1976.

truly brought him to living the life of a cowboy and western writer.

Judy Ballard, one of the rst “gals” to join up with him in his desire to gather some local writers into a support group, shared her memories of working with Dusty.

“Dusty was generous to a fault. One of my earliest recollections was him taking a crate of food to one of the group’s early members when he learned she was out of groceries and had no money. He would not only give you the shirt o his back, but his jeans too if you needed them more than he did.”

is brings my mind to one of my earliest dealings with Dusty. Judy and I and one other member took on the “task” of editing his early manuscript of Noble’s Way, his rst published novel.

After Dusty chopped o the beginning of the book by 100 pages per an interested editor’s recommendation, it still desperately needed some grammatical help. What really had to be done was cull the overuse of the word “that”—one of Dusty’s bad habits. I think we scrubbed more than 100 “thats.” Dusty sold that book, and I’m proud of his dedication to us in the front of the book. at night, after we nished our work, he took us downtown to a nice Mexican Restaurant and fed us. Dusty never failed to express his gratitude for whatever help he received from other authors.

Since he devoted most of his life to writing and writers, these became the stories that de ned him. Here’s an example from Judy that bears out his bottomless generosity with all those in the profession. “He had arranged for a book editor—I think from Missouri—to be his personal guest at his lovely home in the Ozarks, the purpose to critique pre-submitted manuscripts. ose of us who took advantage of that

o er received valuable input. ough mine didn’t turn out so sterling, ultimately, I appreciated his comments. Of course, Dusty absorbed the total cost of that editor’s expertise.” Judy paused for a moment before going on, her tone emotional.

“Dusty thrived on participating in countless regional writing contests and conferences. He soon became a frequent and sought-after guest speaker and contest judge. I can picture him now, bringing his knowledge and love of his subject right up to the microphone at the podium. His ‘down-home’ style of talking was mesmerizing and his discussions always lively and spirited. He had an unmatched zeal for the genre of western writing, and he wanted to share it, though there were times I wanted to remind him to swallow his saliva!” With a smile she went on.

“I remember fondly our get-togethers at the Lodge in Red River, New Mexico. Dusty was a born storytell-

DUSTY AND PAT RICHARDS WITH FRIEND AND FELLOW AUTHOR VELDA BROTHERTON SOMETIME IN THE EARLY 1990S.

er, and when he spoke, you couldn’t help but stop and listen. Once when I arrived at the Lodge without a rm room reservation, he made sure I had a spot to crash— turned out to be USA Today Bestselling Author Jodi omas’s personal apartment, and she provided an air mattress and plenty of blankets.

Judy nished her remembrances. “Dusty and Pat Richards were just plain folks that other people were lucky to know. I shall miss them both, desperately. I still grapple with the knowledge that I will never enjoy another down-home conversation with them.”

In the ensuing years he literally devoted his life to that of a western writer. He wrote hundreds of stories about the lives of the men he so admired, and he went on to win many of the awards being earned by his peers.

is is the story of the man and his writing life and his journey toward the publication of nearly 200 books and how his name became the name in the front of this

magazine. And it’s one heck-uva story. For him, it’s the next best thing to bull dogging and taking eight seconds on the back of a bronc.

With his black Stetson cowboy hat, Dusty stood a head taller than most everyone in the room the day he attended his rst writer’s conference. at’s where I would rst meet the man who would have a tremendous in uence on the lives of myself and so many others for more than thirty years.

1985 - Surrounded by a cluster of eager new writers, the sound of his voice rose above the excitement in the gathering room at the Ozark Creative Writer’s Conference in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Already deep in telling a story he paused to welcome each of us before continuing. His boisterous laughter attracted the attention of arrivals. He introduced himself the way he would continue to do for over thirty years. In all that time he never met a stranger. One would think he’d

STRIKING A THOUGHTFUL POSE IN HIS LIVING ROOM DURING ONE OF HIS FAMOUS PRE-CONFERENCE BARBECUES.

already attended several get-togethers. e remainder of his life he would go nowhere without attracting a crowd with that introduction.

“Howdy. My name’s Dusty Richards, and I write western books.” Standing there decked out in a Stetson which he seldom took o , he laughed as if he’d told a joke.

With several of us it was our rst experience though not the last with this tall cowboy. On signing in for my rst writer’s conference, his was the rst laugh and the rst voice I heard. For even as I registered he gestured for me to join them. We soon learned that in a crowd he could sense whoever felt a bit tense or nervous and put them at ease immediately.

Later, he told us the story of how he entered that same room that very day. Palms sweating, he turned to his wife, Pat, then studied all the writers gathered around and said, “I’m not sure they’ll let me in, Mother. I don’t have any books published.” He had brought along his contract for the three books which he’d never heard back on and was so sure it wasn’t enough to qualify him

to attend a writer’s conference. His earlier behavior made this hard to believe. Telling this tale over the years, he found it hilarious. He was always able to laugh at himself.

Most of us were lucky if we had something published in a magazine or a local newspaper. As it was, writer’s conferences don’t check to see if attendees are published. ey exist to bring hopeful writers and published writers together to learn and teach. Because of that we all settled down to mingle.

Barbara Clouse remembered an earlier event in Fayetteville at Mt. Sequoyah in 1984.

“ e blessing to the entire conference was meeting Pat and Dusty Richards. ey treated me with such kindness, like a long-lost friend, a member of their family, and I felt at home. My fears of isolation as a writer melted away, as I learned right away that we all spoke the same language of creative writing, research, characters, and story plots and a wealth of other subjects. Needless to say, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for nding such a group of people.

“My name’s Dusty Richards, and I write Western books.”

DUSTY AND VELDA TAKE A MOMENT TO SHARE THE ART FOR TWO OF THEIR UPCOMING BOOKS IN THE EARLY 1990S..

“On one occasion during that weekend, we were sitting around visiting like often happened. Someone asked me about my background, and I mentioned that I felt like I was the only writer in Muskogee County. I told the group that I would love to have a club to attend for ideas, support, and learning. is is before cell phones, computers, Google, and other instant ways of getting information. I spent a lot of time at our local library, and that was the only place that had reference books on writing.

“I guess Dusty heard my complaint and said, ‘Well, why don’t you just go home and start your own writers club. Put an article in the local newspaper announcing your intentions to start one. See if your library has a meeting room where you could meet and see if they would help you get started. Don’t gripe about it, just go do it!’”

It wasn’t long before a few of us, led by Dusty, began our own search for a group of writers that met locally, for that was suggested in all our classes at the conference that weekend. Dusty and some of us girls—back then it was okay to call us girls—began to look for such a group, with no luck. After checking out some that weren’t what we were looking for, Dusty decided it was time we took the bull by the horns, as he had earlier suggested more than once. Time to launch our own group. It was 1988, and the small college town did not o er anything like what we wanted. He laid down the rules, and we agreed. ere’d be no o cers, no dues, no keeping of minutes. We may have agreed, but in our minds we elected him President. We stepped back and put him in charge. It suited his personality and abilities.

After a few bumpy starts, that search resulted in what I remember to be a cluster of ve writers that would grow over the years. With Dusty ever sure we could keep the group together, we struggled to nd places to meet. At rst several members who lived in Fayetteville shared their living rooms, and a couple of others worked in town and talked their bosses into opening up the building’s lunchroom every ursday night. We were determined that a meeting a week would help us get ahead. We would accomplish more than a monthly meeting, but that made it more di cult to nd a home.

We approached the President of an organization known as Arkansas Poets and Writers, but with only

(OPPOSITE PAGE) DUSTY HAD MANY FRIENDS, SOME MORE WELLKNOWN THAN OTHERS. HERE HE IS HANGING OUT WITH THE LIKES OF BESTSELLING AUTHORS C.J. BOX (TOP LEFT), CRAIG JOHNSON (MIDDLE LEFT), AND J.B. HOGAN (BOTTOM LEFT).

one visit, we discovered it to be mainly poets. We decided on a critique and support group to ll the needs of members, writing ction or non ction.

After meeting here and there, including in a church that had an old-fashioned heating system that, when it came on, we had to stop talking until it went o it was so loud, we found what appeared to be a permanent home upstairs in the old o ce building of e Jones Center in Springdale. It was free and large enough to support the growth we expected

With Dusty at the helm and talking about our group everywhere he went, members poured in from the entire area of Northwest Arkansas. We soon settled on a name and became the Northwest Arkansas Writers Workshop. We remain that today. e entire area of Northwest Arkansas supported us with members. It seemed many writers lived and wrote in the college town and were searching for a group.

Dusty and I led us to win awards every year at conferences. For ten years we held a free writer’s conference. anks to Dusty serving on the board of directors of Ozarks Electric Co-op, we were able to hold that popular free conference there. While it is no longer being held, the original Northwest Arkansas Writers meeting continues to function as a virtual gathering, some thirty-eight years after its founding.

For all those years, Dusty was the central star, and the stories we all have to tell about our adventures with him and because of him would and shall one day ll a book. ese stories were gathered from those who continue to repeat their favorite tales about him. e cowboy who would literally give you the coat o his back, even if it meant he’d freeze, was a man of such a generous spirit he seemed unreal. For those who knew him, he will never be forgotten.

In the early years, when he drove a company truck

and could a ord to travel—remember that was the eighties, and most of us didn’t have much money to spend on extras—he’d nd every writer’s conference being held, during the season, and attend. He would gather up handouts as well as information, then return to our group and share everything. His wife, Pat, who was a registered nurse and had a heavy workload, worried about him driving alone so much. It suited her when one or more of us would accompany him on his trips to conferences. He was constantly on the lookout for a gathering where he could learn more about writing, and he’d o er to take along whoever wanted to go. Many of the small towns supported a library or reading groups, and he had no trouble being welcomed as a guest speaker. And always he learned facts about writing that he could carry back to us. I’ve never seen anyone so bent on learning his craft as he was… or in sharing what he learned.

After a while, some of us who took him up on his o ers to go along to a conference got to be known as Dusty’s Girls. It seemed our writer’s group was mostly women and all eager to write and be published. at’s when we found out how many women can travel in a club cab pickup. Loading sometimes became a problem. It seems that particular truck he drove was high o the ground, so those with short legs needed a butt boost into a back seat once in a while. Dusty stood by, and we boosted each other, lling the parking lot with loud hilarity. It never seemed to embarrass the western fella standing by.

He was probably one of the most patient drivers I ever traveled with. He liked to tell his stories all the while we whizzed along the highway. He preferred funny and western, and if no one made a comment, he’d wait a minute, then tell it all over again. Very patiently. Sometimes we couldn’t keep from laughing, but we tried not to. It was a habit he had as long as I was around him. We all got to where we’d automatically say something nice or funny about every story he told so he wouldn’t repeat it.

As a member of Western Writers of America, which Dusty joined a few years after his rst book, Noble’s Way, was published in 1990, he took his turn in line to hold the huge Western Writers yearly meeting in his hometown of Springdale. He came to our meeting and announced that a few of us were to help throw this shindig which he was determined would be the best WWA had ever held. And they would talk about it for years. Without delay, he began to assign jobs. No one told Dusty no. He would just keep right on assigning jobs without hesitation.

He declared that no one believed we could nd enough Western entertainment in Arkansas, so he was determined to prove we were part of the West. is be-

DUSTY RICHARDS, THE COWBOY WHO WOULD LITERALLY GIVE YOU THE COAT OFF HIS BACK, EVEN IF IT MEANT HE’D FREEZE, WAS A MAN OF SUCH GENEROUS SPIRIT, HE SEEMED UNREAL.

came his declaration. “It will be the best Western Convention they’ve ever had.” He always called conferences conventions. No one ever corrected him.

We who were assigned jobs fell right in to get them done. Not because he would be angry if we didn’t, but because it would please him if we did.

You need to understand something about this man, and I’ve said it more than once. He would do anything

for anyone who truly needed it. He’d kick in and help without question. Anger never seemed to be a part of his makeup, though he was quick to stand up for what he believed. He simply did not know why we would not want to help him with this convention. It wasn’t that he expected tit for tat, he just thought everyone ought to be as generous as he was.

At the WWA conference Dusty assigned me to

A PAIR OF TEDDY BEARS.

guide bestselling author Michael Gear on the train ride and through Judge Parker’s courtroom at the National Park in Fort Smith. We rode the cable car, and I had the time of my life with the popular writer who was dressed like a mountain man. Together we attracted a lot of attention.

Dusty also signed me up to pitch my book to a Penguin editor. Lisa Wingate stood by to make sure I

carried through when I balked. Penguin eventually contracted the book as well as three others, so I’m one of the many writer’s whose career Dusty helped kick o .

With his wife’s blessing, he and I spent more and more time traveling to Western Conferences. She worked and told me she felt better when he didn’t travel alone. And so, until she retired, if it wasn’t Dusty’s Girls on a conference trip, it was Dusty and me.

Here’s just about everything his fans already know in a nutshell. Dusty Richards was an author of numerous Western novels and a noted mentor to hundreds of beginning writers. When attending conferences after his popularity spread, he acted as a speaker everywhere he could, and he quickly gathered a following. He was amused that some writers believed being around him would be enough to advance their career. He was fond of telling them that being around published writers wasn’t a magic way to become published. It was the hard work and studying their craft that would help the most. He also preached about doing research and reading.

On a trip to Wyoming and Montana, we listened to his stories based on the true happenings in the area. We drove to Ten Sleep, Wyoming, one day, Pat and I entertained by historical stories. If Dusty didn’t know something, he would nd out. Ten Sleep, he explained,

was so named because it took an American Indian ten days and nights of travel to get there from Fort Laramie. At rst, amazed that anyone could know as much as he did, I watched him when we traveled. He not only bought books about the area, but he also talked to people who lived there and soaked up everything they told him. at’s how he became such a fantastic storyteller. I soon learned from him that a writer does not tell stories, he lives them and takes his reader along with him.

A nal remembrance from an early friend, originally one of those rst few workshop group members. Lisa Wingate is today a New York Times Bestseller of the series Tending Roses and her latest, e Book of Lost Friends. She had this to say about Dusty.

“It’s a funny thing about friends. We nd them on the job or in whatever place we’re living at the moment or in the course of some hobby or activity we’re

JOTTING DOWN SOME THOUGHTS DURING HIS VISIT TO ZANE GREY’S CABIN. MAYBE ZANE GAVE HIM A FEW STORY IDEAS?

DURING A QUIET SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT HOME ON BEAVER LAKE IN 2015, DUSTY LOOKS DOWN HIS BACKTRAIL AT A LIFE WELL-LIVED.

involved in. But jobs change, families relocate, interests bloom and fade. Sometimes friendships do, too. ey’re seasonal.

“Others... stick. ey’re timeless. No matter how long it’s been since the last visit, when the next one happens, you sit down and take up the conversation right where you left o .

“Dusty was that kind of friend. e kind who greeted you with a hearty handshake or a hug and never let go. I didn’t know that about him the rst time we met, in a ursday night writer’s group that held its weekly huddles in a Methodist church fellowship hall in Fayetteville, Arkansas. e group had only been meeting a few months when I wandered in for my inaugural visit. I was a sleep-deprived new mom in a new town, and I’d left a petri ed husband home alone with a whiny three month old baby— rst time solo, ever. e poor man was ashen when I picked up my notepad and car keys. He looked like he might faint. I think he said something like, “But... but what if the baby cries while you’re gone?”

“I left anyway. I was going to that writer’s group. I needed adult activity and the company of other writers. I also needed some friends in this new hometown. I gured hunting up the church hall on a dark, windy winter night was worth a try. Before I’d even made it in out of the weather, a big man with a big hat and an even bigger heart swept me through the door and into a friendship that would last through seasons and books, family moves and life changes, careers and retirements, and babies growing up and leaving the nest.

“Wherever life took us, there was always the routine of catching up over latest books, latest family news, new story ideas, and the tales of Dusty’s many travels with Pat riding shotgun. Occasionally, those travels brought him to our door. ose were the best times. Each one started with that hearty howdy and a big bear hug. ose greetings always tugged a daisy chain of memories. e chain grew stronger and richer over the years, longer and more complex, but always at its root lay a cold winter night, an open door, and that very rst ursday with Dusty.”

A BEAUTIFUL FAMILY. DUSTY AND PAT POSING WITH A LARGE PORTION OF THEIR FAMILY AFTER THEIR GRANDDAUGHTER’S WEDDING.

EVERY TIME

A new writer began to talk to Dusty about their book, he would tell them to send him three chapters, and he would go over it, and give them suggestions to help them out. I’ve seen him accept an armload of three-chapter-work from anyone and everyone who asked. I’ve never met anyone so generous with their time as he was. And he meant what he said about taking a look. ey’d get their work back with comments that would help them write.

In one interview, he remarked, “Hours and hours, pages and pages, book after book, you can’t have enough knowledge. Take some history, put your hero in the midst, and let him nd his way home. He knew for certain that good writing was good writing. e genre didn’t matter that much. Of course, we all learned all the rules as our group grew and matured. We also learned from each other how to break them. Dusty’s advice was always valuable.

Over the years he served on the board of Ozark

Creative Writers Conference, held annually in Eureka Springs, Arkansas; the Ozarks Writer’s League in Branson, Missouri; and the Oklahoma Writer’s Federation. He also served on the board of the local electric co-op; the Springdale Arkansas PRCA Rodeo; and as President of Western Writers of America . In 2004 he was inducted into the Arkansas Writers Hall of Fame. In his spare time, he also co-founded this very magazine with his friend and fellow writer, Casey Cowan.

He began writing in 1980, and by 1990 his rst book, Noble’s Way, was published. He would go on to pen some 175 novels—some under his own name, many under a pseudonym or “house” name—including some that have not yet seen the light of day.

VELDA BROTHERTON is an award-winning Saddlebag Dispatches. She lives on a mountainside in

WHETHER WEARING HIS WHITE HAT OR HIS BLACK ONE, THE ONE AND ONLY DUSTY RICHARDS ALWAYS STOOD OUT IN A CROWD.

THE DODGE BROTHERS’ TOURING car spluttered on the steep grade. Half-sick with fear that the engine might die, Craft threaded the accelerator with his boot sole. To his relief, the motor overcame the cough, and the rear tires dug into the soft sandy tracks chugging powerfully to the top of the rise.

His major concern was the tall, thin man in the passenger seat. Craft glanced aside to check on him. The ivory mustache turned yellow at the corners. His thick, snow-white eyebrows hooded steel blue eyes, which stared straight ahead at the brown-grass country that rolled off to south Texas. Deputy sheriff Bill Purdy, the famous ex-Ranger, had not broken the past five miles of silence—not a word since sixteenyear-old Craft had driven him out of town.

“You herd this noisy thing around much?” Purdy finally asked.

“Quite a bit.” Craft swallowed hard, hoping he had given his important rider a good enough answer.

Purdy scowled in disapproval, “A man could go crazy listening to this infernal thing cluck.”

“I’d have to agree. A horse would be a lot quieter.”

“That’s for sure. Why, this thing spooks all the game clear out of the country. Did you see that doe run off back there?”

“Yes, sir.” It would be hard for him to impress the old man in any way about the autocar and its features.

“Those damn rustlers will hear us coming ten miles off,” Purdy said.

“Maybe they won’t suspect a lawman coming in a car,” Craft said as he fought the steering wheel to follow the wagon tracks.

“That’s the only way it will work.”

“Sir? Do you think they’ll fight their way out?”

Purdy shook his head as if the matter was of little concern to him. Then he leaned forward and squinted out the sun blasted windshield at the country ahead.

“Did you ever know John Wesley Hardin?”

“Yes.”

“Was he the killer they say he was?”

“I guess so. They say he once shot a man who snored too loud.”

“Really?”

“Aw, old men spin lots of windy yarns. Don’t believe half the stuff they tell you. How old are you?”

“Sixteen. “

“Hmm, when I was sixteen, I made my first trail drive to Kansas.”

“Was it exciting?”

“Every dang bit as exciting as driving this car is for you.”

Craft nodded in agreement as he wiped his sweaty left palm on his pants leg for the sixth time. Finally, the old man talked about something interesting.

“What did you do on the drive?”

“Cook’s helper, ’til the night a wrangler drowned crossing the Red River. Got a promotion after that. Took care of the remuda.”

“Were there Injuns?”

“There was everything on those drives to contend with—Injuns, herd cutters, plain rustlers, and nesters.”

“I’ve heard them cow towns were really wild.” Craft wondered about his carousing with wild women and exciting things that the man would admit to.

“Yes, they were straight from the pages of Hell.”

The Dodge rumbled over some washboard places tossing both driver and passenger around. With only a small scrape of metal to metal, he quickly found another gear to slow them down.

“This thing sure is riding rough,” Purdy complained.

“It’ll be smoother ahead.” Craft pointed to where the ground became sandy again.

“Can’t come soon enough.” Purdy adjusted the snowy Boss of the Plains hat on his head and sat straight back on the seat.

“They say, in a few years, these cars will replace horses and wagons for travel.”

“We all heard the same silly thing about bicycles thirty years ago, and they ain’t done it yet. Hmm, they said we wouldn’t need horses after they invented those, either.”

Craft wished he’d never mentioned the part about auto cars taking the place of horses. It had only made the old man sull up. He would have enjoyed hearing more about the cattle drive business and cow towns. Despite his gruffness, the slender six-foot officer didn’t look stout enough to handle real tough lawbreakers. He hoped the man’s reputation held when they found the suspects he sought.

A hiss of air came like a gunshot, and Craft sunk behind the wheel as if he’d been hit. A flat tire—

Purdy frowned at him as he braked to a stop. “What’s wrong with this contraption, now?”

“Flat tire, sir.”

Purdy studied the sky for the time and looked pained at the inconvenience. “How long will it take you to fix it?”

“I’m not certain, I don’t carry a watch.”

Purdy removed the fancy engraved time piece on the gold chain from his vest, popped it opened, and showed the face to Craft. Two thirty. With a nod that he’d read it, he hurried out of the seat.

“It won’t take but a jiffy, sir,” Craft promised and went back to the trunk, a high steamer-like case on the rear of the car.

The rear axle finally jacked up, he sweated profusely as he pried the casing off the rim. Then, upset with the delay, he furiously inflated the inner tube to locate the puncture, while Purdy seated himself on the running board, rolled cigarettes, and acted like any malfunction was not his doing.

Twenty minutes later, the smell of gunpowder strong in his nostril from vulcanizing the patch, Craft cranked the Dodge’s engine to life. An hour later, with a funnel of dust in their wake, they drove up to Oakley’s Bar Seventy-Nine headquarters.

“You let me handle this,” Purdy said as the brakes ground them to a stop. “Stay in the car, no matter what happens.”

Craft nodded, letting the engine idle as Purdy unfolded himself out of the front seat. Deliberate-like he reset the Stetson and walked toward the house. A yellow dog who’d barked his head off since they’d arrived, ran off yelping at his approach.

Two men came out on the porch. They never smiled. Craft drew a deep breath, frozen to his seat and spellbound. He watched things unfold. The Oakley brothers, Harp and Doan, were, by reputation, tough men and half Purdy’s age, too. Would they resist the old lawman, and what should he do? Angry voices carried to him. Craft reached for the door latch. Perhaps he should back Purdy’s play. What could one old man do?

A gunshot broke the melee. A cloud of blue smoke

settled around Purdy and the two men. Wide eyed, his heart pounding in his throat, Craft leaned forward on the steering wheel to stare in disbelief at them. Purdy was still standing. So were the other two. Purdy must have punctuated his orders with the shot, Craft decided as he slumped in relief under the steering wheel.

The two brothers, their hands raised high, marched toward the car ahead of Purdy.

“There’s been a mistake,” a distraught woman shrieked. “They never done it!”

Purdy looked unfazed by her pleading. He holstered his gun, handcuffed the silent prisoners, and loaded them in the back seat.

“Young man, let’s see if you can get this thing back to Sulphur,” he finally said, then he climbed in.

Craft nodded, revived the engine, and ground the transmission into low. It chugged around in a great U-turn away from the shouting woman, toward town and the jail. Uneventfully, he delivered his passengers to the courthouse at six ten on Purdy’s great gold watch.

“Thank you, young man,” Purdy said after unloading his prisoners. “The sheriff will pay you your fee in the next few days.”

Craft thanked him, then proudly drove the Dodge back to the family store. Flushed with excitement, his best pals swarmed off the porch to greet him, freckle-faced Bobby Jack and Alvin Frank with his stubborn cowlick standing up in back like a rooster comb.

“Well, tell us all about it,” Bobby Jack gushed.

“Only one shot was fired.”

“One shot?” Alvin ran his hands over the fender feeling for a bullet hole.

Craft shook his head in disgust at his friend’s searching. “No one shot the car, silly. He fired once into the air to settle them down.”

“Wow! Were you right there?”

“Close enough.”

“What’s he like?”

So, Craft explained all Purdy had told him about cattle drives and John Wesley Hardin, as they went inside and had a sarsaparilla to celebrate his first law enforcement adventure.

AFTER SCANNING THE HEADLINES on the front page about how America would soon go to war against the Kaiser, Craft read the obituary about the famous Texas Ranger losing a bout with pneumonia. William Houston Purdy went to his reward in the great sky, December 18, according to the

The next few days, several gray-haired men gathered at the hotel to join the procession from Parnell’s funeral parlor to the hill cemetery where they took the deceased. From the storefront window, Craft watched the old timers shuffle long-faced up Weather Street.

He studied the saddled buckskin trailing behind the hearse and approved of it. Then he turned on his heel and went back to stocking shelves—another legend was gone like a dust devil spun away into oblivion.

Later in the afternoon, he looked up from his sweeping when Sheriff Michaels came through the front door, tinkling the bell. The man’s broad shoulders crowded the brown suit. Craft realized the lawman had a purpose, and he was the person he sought.

“You must have really impressed the old man,” the sheriff said.

“Pardon, sir?”

“Bill Purdy. He left some strict instructions.”

“Oh.” Craft blinked in confusion as Michaels held the great gold watch before him.

“Take it. He wanted you to have it.”

“Me?”

“Yes. He asked on his dying bed that the polite boy who took him on his one and only car ride should have it. You know old Billy never said much, but I guess he was sure impressed with you.”

Craft acknowledged he’d heard the sheriff’s words as he opened the timepiece’s face with shaky fingers. He laid it to his ear to listen to the ticking. He’d probably never hear all those tales about Kansas, the saloon gals, and famous wild places, but he did have a great watch that once belonged to an important man. Why he’d be the one in history who gave the former ranger Bill Purdy his only car ride. He polished the gleaming case on his shirtfront, then he pocketed his prized possession.

Wouldn’t his buddies envy him now?

DUSTY TALKING WITH A FELLOW AUTHOR DURING THE ANNUAL WESTERN WRITERS OF AMERICA CONVENTION.

DUSTY, A CHIHUAHUA, A BOY, AND ME

IT’S 2008, IF MY memory hasn’t given out, at the Western Writers of America (WWA) convention in Scottsdale, Arizona, and Dusty Richards is serving as auctioneer for the WWA fundraiser sponsored by the Homestead Foundation, the charitable 501(c)(3) foundation that provides award-giving and educational functions for WWA.

Jack, my son, is helping out. He idolizes Dusty Richards, and what 6-year-old boy wouldn’t be wowed by Dusty? The man’s larger than life. He drives a pickup truck the size of an aircraft carrier. That thick drawl. His jowly face. The ever-present cowboy hat. They talk about fishing. About baseball. About Jack’s new straw cowboy hat. About what first grade will be like. Then Jack, one more time, tells Dusty how he wants an apple-headed, miniature Chihuahua puppy.

That’s another story, but a few years earlier, on the way to the grocery, we pass a man selling Chihuahuas, the puppies sitting atop a boulder in front of the

D. BOGGS

store. Jack picks one up and is smitten. Who wouldn’t be smitten by an adorable little puppy? But—

“We have a dog.”

“Yes, June is Dad’s dog.”

“Well, we’ll get you your own dog when you’re a little older.”

Now, in the middle of the auction, Dusty rides down a different trail.

“Hey, folks, y’all know Jack Boggs wants a little dawg,” Dusty drawls. “So, let’s all chip in so Jack can get himself a little ol’ puppy dawg.”

He calls out for Jack to pass around the hat, and my son eagerly jumps up and runs around till embarrassment sends him hurrying to his mom, while I find myself holding a new straw hat filled with bills.

A thought flashes through my stunned brain. Criminy, or a one-syllable word, I’ve got to find a Chihuahua puppy now.

The money from the hat goes to the Santa Fe (New Mexico) Animal Shelter, which I don’t claim as

JOHNNY

a tax deduction. But about a year later, in a nightmare adventure that reads more like fiction that I’ll save for later, I return with an apple-headed, miniature Chihuahua that Jack names Biscuit.

She must have heard me typing her name because she walks over from her bed in my office to check on me. Five-plus pounds, thirteen-plus years old. Goes ballistic at anyone who rings the doorbell and has outlasted two other bassets I’ve owned—you do know that miniature Chihuahuas live practically forever, don’t you?

I mail Dusty a photo of Jack and Biscuit. And during future WWA conventions, Dusty always ambles over to Jack, shakes his hand, and asks, “How’s that little dawg doin’?”

Yes, I think about Dusty Richards every time I’m picking up a deposit left in the house—you do know that miniature Chihuahuas are impossible to house train, don’t you? Or when the doorbell rings and Biscuit races off, yapping like a hydrophobic coyote while I’m apologizing to the museum curator I’m interviewing over the telephone for a magazine assignment. Or when she’s curled up by Bailey, the latest basset hound, in my office, looking so angelic. Or snarling when Biscuit has the high ground or thinks sweet-hearted Bailey is being a pest.

This is what I remember most about Dusty Richards. A boy and his dog. Of all the Westerns Dusty somehow wrote with those massive fingers, I still think his contemporary rodeo novel, TheNatural, is his best.

Of course, I also recall that bellowing laugh. And many of his stories.

And just how smart he is. He likes to play the comic relief, but sit with him on nonprofit boards like at WWA and Ozark Creative Writers, and you see another side. He knows business; he knows finances, but as soon as the board meeting is over, he’s telling stories, getting laughs, and laughing at other stories.

I remember other times, too.

into the lobby with Pat, his lovely wife. He wears shorts and Birkenstocks. Hey, it’s 113 degrees outside. Dusty’s friends look stunned. Mouths fall wide open. Eyes bulge out of heads. And my camera is upstairs in my room. There goes my chance at a Pulitzer Prize for photography.

A BUNCH OF WESTERN writers are discussing Cormac McCarthy. I know I am in the minority here, but I’ve never understood the admiration for McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. Fact is, I find the novel practically unreadable. But The Road, McCarthy’s 2006 post-apocalyptic novel that won a Pulitzer Prize, mesmerizes me. Colleagues dismiss my thoughts about The Road, but Dusty sides with me—at least on “The relationship between the boy and father in that book moved me,” he says.

Wait. Dusty Richards reads post-apocalyptic literary fiction?

Our literary discourse continues.

This is a side of Dusty many of us don’t see. Countless times I hear him tell the story of how he wrote reviews of Western novels for his classmates, knowing, of course, that his teachers would never crack the spine of a Western. He raves about Zane Grey and other writers of traditional Westerns—the type of stories he loved to tell—but he is well read. Now I am shocked to learn he even reads my works. “He never writes the same story twice,” he says of my novels. “Every one’s different.”

I’m touched. I’m proud.

Dusty Richards likes my books!

LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. THE 2013 WWA convention at the Riviera Hotel & Casino. Dusty walks

I’M INVITED TO SPEAK at the Ozark Creative Writers conference in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Let’s call it 2010. Dusty serves on the board, and after my presentation, fellow writer and OCW board member Max McCoy asks me to serve on the OCW board of directors. They ask, I am sure, because they think I can bring in some top names as keynote speakers, and over the next few years I will deliver—Da-

vid Morrell, James Donovan, Jeff Guinn. But I keep coming back as a board member because Eureka Springs is a nice place to be in October, the people are friendly, and writers never stop learning from other writers. Dusty will tell you that.

But it’s here, over a number of years, that I learn what Dusty’s biggest accomplishments are. Not the three Spur Awards or his Western Heritage Wrangler Award. Not his 2014 induction into the Arkansas Writers Hall of Fame. And not his professionalism as a writer. As Kensington Publishing Corporation editor Gary Goldstein points out— Dusty never missed one deadline.

It is this:

Dusty Richards helps everyone who attends any conference or joins any writers group, WWA, OCW, Ozark Writers League, Northwest Arkansas Writers, Oklahoma Writes Federation, you name it. He refuses to voice one discouraging word. He wants to help everyone, hopes they all get published, and some of those he takes under his wing go on to have literary careers. Maybe they won’t top Dusty’s productivity, but they always stop to thank Dusty for his kindness, generosity, guidance, and all those stories that made them laugh.

This man, I figure, will live forever.

SEPTEMBER 20, 2017, FINDS me at the Buffalo Bill Center of the West in Cody, Wyoming, for the dedication of the permanent Western Writers Hall of Fame exhibit just outside the McCracken Research Library. Dusty, WWA executive director Candy Moulton, president Kirk Ellis, vice-president Nancy Plain, novelist Loren D. Estleman, historians Paul Andrew Hutton, Sherry Monahan, and Pete Simpson, collector Robert McCubbin, the husband-wife bestselling writing team of W. Michael and Kathleen O’Neal Gear, others. On a tour of the center’s Cody Firearms Museum, a curator brings out the 1895 Deluxe Lever Action Sporting Rifle, beautifully engraved by Clundt Philip, that Winchester Repeating Arms Company gave to Zane Grey in 1924.

TOURING THE CODY FIREARMS MUSEUM IN THE BUFFALO BILL CENTER OF THE WEST IN CODY, WYOMING, DUSTY AIMS THE 1895 DELUXE LEVER ACTION SPORTING RIFLE GIVEN TO LEGENDARY WESTERN AUTHOR ZANE GREY IN 1924 BY THE WINCHESTER REPEATING ARMS COMPANY.

DUSTY RICHARDS HELPED EVERYONE. HE REFUSED TO VOICE ONE DISCOURAGING WORD. HE WANTED TO HELP EVERYONE, HOPED THEY ALL GOT PUBLISHED, MAYBE THEY NEVER TOPPED DUSTY’S PRODUCTIVITY, BUT THEY ALWAYS STOP TO THANK HIM FOR HIS KINDNESS, GENEROSITY, GUIDANCE, AND ALL THOSE STORIES THAT MADE THEM LAUGH.

When Dusty braces the stock on his shoulder, he’s delighted to hold a rifle used by one of his favorite authors. He’s also humbled.

I take a photo of Dusty holding that Winchester. Not the sharpest, not the best framed, not the most vivid that I’ve ever taken, but it’s my favorite photo of Dusty.

His article about the dedication will appear in the February 2018 issue of WWA’s Roundup Magazine, in which he writes that “the museum folks let me, and others, hold one of Zane Grey’s rifles. I grew up on Zane Grey, have been to his cabin in Payson, Arizona, and Zane Grey, rightfully so, is a member of the Western Writers Hall of Fame.”

That September evening, in the hotel bar, a bunch of us sit around talking about writing. Process. How we do this. How we do that. What we like, dislike. What works, and what doesn’t. For us, anyway. One writer’s blessing might be another writer’s curse, but words just don’t appear on paper or computer screens.

Just before the confab breaks up, Moulton suggests that this ought to be a panel for the 2018 convention in Billings, Montana, or down the road. Just Western writers, sitting and talking about the craft of writing, the process of writing.

Dusty retires early that night—hey, holding Zane Grey’s rifle and getting lost in that sprawling museum take a lot of out of you—but, by all means, Dusty needs to be on this panel.

It’s a great idea.

But this particular panel will never happen.

BECAUSE HERE I AM, sitting on the back row at Beard’s Funeral Chapel in Fayetteville, Arkansas.

The Western writer who is going to live forever is dead at age 80, from injuries sustained in a single-vehicle crash that also claims his wife a few days before he joins her.

Earlier, Moulton calls to say that scheduling conflicts will not allow her or other WWA officers to attend the funeral. She asks if I can represent WWA. “I was going anyway,” I tell her. That’s an easy de -

cision, much easier than telling Jack that Dusty is gone. I give Biscuit a treat and some extra attention before I hit the road to the Albuquerque airport, fly to Tulsa, and drive a rental car into Arkansas over the same route I’ve traveled to OCW all these years.

OCW board member Linda Apple asks if I want to sit up front, but I politely decline, explaining that I’m a back-pew kind of guy. That’s not the real reason. The real reason is the reporters notepad I’m holding in my lap.

I’ll cowrite Dusty’s obituary in WWA’s Roundup Magazine, but I’m not taking notes for that article. Truth be told, I write poetry about as often as I’ll attempt lyrics for a song. Once every two years is prolific. Once every four or five might be average. Prose doesn’t come easy, at least not as easy as Dusty made it seem, but I don’t need inspiration, just a deadline, to write a magazine article, a short story, a nonfiction book, or a novel. Now, something is forming in my consciousness that I have to put down on paper. Hard to believe that Dusty Richards, that spinner of Old West yarns and stories and owner of a belly laugh you can’t believe or forget, has me attempting free verse in Arkansas. Well, he has inspired numerous writers to do many things, and no one who met him will forget him.

He is not really dead. Writers like Dusty, they never truly die. Isn’t that right, Biscuit?

—

JOHNNY

D. BOGGS has worked cattle, been bucked canoe, hiked across mountains and deserts, traipsed around from the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum, and has been called by Booklist

True West, Wild West, Boys’ Life and Western Art & Architecture, speaks and lectures

South Carolina and former newspaper journalist, he lives in

THINGS WERE IN A hellacious uproar across southeast Arizona and southwest New Mexico. The U.S. Army Cavalry and Army Scouts had been charging all over the area after renegade Apache. Most folks had brought their families into the small towns from their ranches in the area under the threat of more Apache attacks. While others set up fortifications at their home ranches and were armed to the teeth to withstand any charges.

Burl Waller had gone into Tombstone for supplies and was headed back for his ranch with a swift team of horses hitched on his buckboard. No grass was growing under those ponies’ hooves when he reached a bend in the road and about ran over a prone body. His quick actions avoided hitting the body on the ground, and he stood up and hauled the lathered team to a stop.

Who was in the road? He wrapped up his reins, drew his Colt .44 just in case, and jumped down to see if they were even alive. He found the person was wrapped in a blanket, and when he turned her over, he discovered she was a young, pale-faced, unconscious woman. With the hair on the back of his neck

standing up, he looked over the chaparral country. Nothing moved or showed themselves. He holstered his handgun, swept her up, and put her in the back between his supplies.

Who was she? She had no blood on her, nor did she look beat up. How did she get out there? She didn’t wake up in his transfer. Maybe at Childers Crossing someone would know where she belonged. He climbed back onto the spring seat wondering who, why, and where as he slapped the horses on the butts and sent them southeast.

Occasionally, he looked back over his shoulder at her still form. There was not a sign of consciousness in her. She had been breathing and not too troubled. But whatever, he’d be at Childers shortly, and maybe, someone there could answer his questions.

He topped the next hill and saw the smoke. There was something on fire. Childers had a small store/ saloon at the crossroads between Tombstone and the road to the Fort Huachuca. That store must be burning ahead. Damn those bastards, anyway. He knew those raiders would be gone by the time he got there. The tall streak of smoke would draw any army

outfit in the desert there immediately. He stood up, and his passenger wrapped in the blanket between his supplies had not moved. He hoped she had not died. Nothing he could do but drive on.

He took a shortcut toward his place risking running head on into a band of Apache out in the brush. The greasewood rubbed his spokes, and the smell of creosote was powerful. He crossed the sandy dry wash and could see the ranch and corrals. He swept into the yard, and the two Mexican boys, Ornaldo and Micah, came from the house armed with Winchesters.

“Ah, you made it,” Micah said. “Who is that?”

“We better get her inside. Help me get her out. Be careful. She’s unconscious. I found her lying on the road.

“Open the door,” he said with her in his arms. He carried her in and put her on his bed in the middle of the room.

Her blue eyes flew open in shock. “Who are you?”

“Burl Waller. Who are you?”

“I’m sorry. I‘m not sure.” She looked like she was in shock over the fact that she couldn’t spit out her name.

“I don’t know your story, lady, but you’re safe here. These boys and me are armed to the teeth. This old rock house is a fort. It has a tin roof, so fire arrows won’t burn it down. But we’re ready. Now, you rest, and your past will catch up with you.”

“I am very grateful for you seeing about me. My mind is very confused.” She fell back on the pillow and held the back of her hand to her forehead. “Why can’t I tell you where and who I am.”

He folded his arms. “I repeat, you’re safe here. Don’t fret. Things will return to you. The more you worry, the more you lock them out. The boys and I aren’t great cooks, but we will fix something to eat. I bet you have missed some meals.

“I don’t even know that.”

“Rest.”

“I will try.”

He turned to his two helpers. “Any Indians come around while I was in town?”

“No,” Ornaldo replied. He was eighteen and a good hand with a gun, rope, or horse.

Micah, his shorter cousin, was sixteen and a smart youth too. Both boys had been raised in Apacheria,

and they knew their threat well. They had lost family members in raids on the village where they were raised south of the U.S. border. Help was short. The high paying mines in Tombstone got the miners. Not many cowboys looking for work ventured into the region because of the Apache. So, he and his boys ran his ranch and used the good local beef market to make a profit on his operation.

They soon had some frijoles on the wood burning range to cook. He also started to boil some oatmeal, thinking it might be more kind to her stomach, plus the beans would require hours to be boiled tender.

When he glanced over at their patient, he discovered she had slipped off into sleep. Good, maybe rest would restore her mind. He hoped so. She was someone’s wife, daughter, or whatever. She was nice enough looking, and her clothes were not rags but spoke of some wealth. Too nice a female anyway for a crusty thirty-two-year-old rancher who’d been a bachelor all his life like him.

He came out of Texas after the war. Found this ranch and had enough money of his own from cattle drives to Kansas to buy the Three L. He wondered if he’d known then the full threat of the Apache if he’d ever bought there. But he had to make it work or turn up his toes. The beef market in Tombstone was a good one, so he stayed. This would be his third year in the territory. He bought stocker cattle in Mexico, drove them up, and ranged them on his wide valley’s grass until they fattened.

Him and his two hands made the deal work. With his palm, he scrubbed the two weeks’ beard stubble on his face, something that hadn’t bothered him until he got in her company. Oh, she’d soon be back where she belonged and never worry a minute about his shaggy looks or the dusty six-foot-tall cowboy that found her lying in the road.

He felt guilty having this woman on his hands with three men and her cooped up in a small jacal. She was very modest, but she didn’t know her name for anything. That frustrated her. He could tell, but she never complained. Soon, she did the cooking, and they enjoyed an improved diet.

Some troopers came by to check on them and said they thought the Apache renegades had gone back to

the Sierra Madres in Mexico. They knew nothing of her or where she came from. So, he planned to take “Jane” to Tombstone in the morning. They had a nice arm’s length relationship, but he never was much of a ladies’ man. She acted very reserved and demure, not like some ladies of the night he occasionally dipped into in one of the sporting houses in Tombstone.

He put on his white shirt, tie, and coat. They let her have the casa after they brought her heated bath water. She thanked them. When she was ready, he helped her on the buckboard seat, and they ran off to Tombstone.

His first stop was the courthouse. None of Sheriff “Bob” Paul’s deputies recognized her. They acted like he should leave her there with someone until her people came looking for her since she had no knowledge who she was. That was not what he planned short of finding her people. He checked with several others and left a notice to be printed in both newspapers that a young woman had been found, and due to her lack of memory, needed to be identified.

When he left the last paper office, she put her hand on his knee on the buckboard and spoke quite frankly. “I am afraid someone will say that she is mine and not be telling the truth, and I’d have to go with them, Burl.”

“Only answer for that is for me to buy a marriage license and marry you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” They were stopped in his buckboard about to block traffic.

“If your real man came, I’d apologize and give you back. That way they couldn’t take you like you’re talking about.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Would you marry me?”

She nodded and acted relieved.

“Good enough. Let’s do it.”

He turned the rig around in the middle of the block and went back to the courthouse. Getting a marriage license for “Jane Doe” was not easy, but they got one, and they were married. He kissed the bride, and they went by the doctor’s office.

Doc Farley rung out his left ear a few times with his index finger after checking her. He explained she might slow-like regain her past memory. No doubt she had suffered a severe blow to the head and had no idea when that happened. He said she was extremely healthy and then, in a whisper, said she had been married sometime in the past. He was confident.

Burl never took that note as anything but part of her past life they didn’t know about. She looked at him concerned over the matter, and he dismissed it. “We don’t know how that went is all I can say, Jane.”

She agreed with his confidence, and they thanked the doctor and went out to the buckboard. He stopped her to talk before they got on the rig.

“Now, I’m not pushing you into anything you don’t want to do. We are married and legal like unless—”

Her finger on his lips silenced him. “I know what you are going to say. I have no one but you, Burl. If I had someone, they surely would have come looking for me by now. I am your wife, and I want to be her.”

“Girl, that solves all my problems. I am getting us a hotel room for tonight, and you will be my wife sure enough.”

She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “You have treated me so nice. Thank you, sir.”

That spot she kissed on his shaven face burned like a hot branding iron. He got them a back room on the second floor of the Alhambra Hotel. A quieter place than the ones on the street, and they had a honeymoon.

He never regretted a second of it. For him it was like some religious ceremony to have a wife to love him.

He found her beauty and her pleasing ways toward him as some great gift from a loving God. Nothing he even deserved had been handed to him on a silver platter. He never knew what a wife would be like. He soon found out.

He built her a hacienda, and they soon had two children. His ranching operation spread, and in five years, he was one of the more prosperous cattlemen in southeast Arizona Territory.

One afternoon, three men rode up the driveway on horseback. Skirt in hand, Jane hurried from the porch to see what they wanted. She paused at the iron-gate under the arch before she opened it. The sight of the unshaven men in their dust-floured clothing were not who she had expected. Tough men with the hard eyes of wolves looked upon her like hungry lobos.

Her heart stopped in her chest. Why was the one in the center so familiar?

“Gawdamnit, Claire, ain’t you going to come out and hug me, darling.” He got off his horse and about caught his boot in his stirrup. The horse shied from him. He beat it with the reins about the face and cursed more at it while it shied away from him. “Ain’t you glad to see me, Claire? I just got out of prison, baby. You remember when I broke out of that jail in Thatcher, and we came down here on our way to Mexico.” He stuck a cigar in his mouth. “I guess we were real drunk that day. You were sleeping in the back of the wagon when the horses ran off.”

“I don’t even know who you are, mister.”

“Well, the law got us before we got to the border, and I never could figure out where I lost you out of that damn wagon. A con told me in prison you might be right here. He said you lost your memory after falling

out of a wagon. Damned if you ain’t pretty as ever.”

“Stay right there. I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you.”

“Aw, Claire. I been in Yuma prison five years. You’re still my wife, and baby, I need you bad today.” His hand went to his crotch.

“Mister, you better ride out of here right now.” She closed her eyes. She’d never been his wife. She sure didn’t know him.

“Cover me, boys—”

Burl arrived, stepped in the archway, and gently moved her over. “Let me handle them.”

“I don’t know them. I swear,” she said.

“Who in the hell are you?” The felon went for his gun. His years in prison must have slowed his draw because the Colt in Burl’s hand struck him twice in the chest. Then two rifles barked. The two others were pitched off their horses by his men’s shots from positions behind the wall.

Jane sat on the ground sobbing. Burl holstered his gun. Kneeling down, he raised her wet face and kissed her softly on the lips. “I heard him, Jane. Your bad dream is finally over—”

Another gunshot cut him off, one of the boys finishing things for good.

“Jane, get up. This nightmare is finally over. We heard what happened.” He pulled her to her feet and hugged her.

She smiled at him like she did that first day in Tombstone “Thank God for you. I won’t worry about them coming back or any part my past life ever again. I have you, and that’s all that is important to me.”

Neither did it bother Burl that it was over, either.

DONATING COPIES OF HIS BESTSELLING BYRNES FAMILY RANCH SERIES DURING A LIBRARY EVENT IN FARMINGTON, ARKANSAS.

“W

I WILL ALWAYS BE A ‘DUSTY’S GIRL’

and authoring books, as well

LINDA APPLE

HO’S THAT LAUGHING?””

It wasn’t unusual to hear people laughing at our annual company bar-b-que, but that laugh? It was thunderous.

My husband glanced over at the group about a half-football field away. “That’s Dusty Richards. He works for field services. He also gives the farm report for Channel 40/29.”

I strolled closer to get a better look. Although the sun beat down in the sweltering summer, a crowd of people gathered around this larger-than-life man who wore a long-sleeved light cotton shirt, jeans, and a huge white cowboy hat. I noticed how he clapped the table while regaling the group with his story. Just like everyone else, I was mesmerized.

Later in the day, everyone gathered their leftovers and left for home. I watched Dusty slap backs and shake hands on his way to his truck. After that day, I never saw him at one of our gatherings again. Even so, he was hard to forget.

A couple of years later my friend, Lois Spoon, joined a fiction writer’s critique group that met weekly in the evening. Even though she wrote nonfiction she was welcomed to join. After every weekly meeting she’d talk about the group and what she learned. I wanted to improve my writing too, so I asked her if I could tag along. I’d never heard of critique groups. Honestly, I really wasn’t sure what they were or how they worked but decided it might be an adventure. Lois was happy for me to join her, since we both wrote nonfiction and could be a force of two.

The evening finally arrived. At the time the group met in a small room in a Methodist church. Imagine my surprise when I walked into the room and there sat Dusty. He stood and shook my hand.

“Welcome to the group, Buddy.”

Dusty? He’s a writer? Who knew?

Velda Brotherton, the co-founder of the group, also welcomed me. The two were the dynamic duo

DUSTY

helping all of us fledgling writers find our wings. I joined the circle of chairs in the group, made up mostly of women. We brought something we were working on to read—five double-spaced pages—then afterwards, listened to Dusty and Velda’s comments. I never realized how thirsty I was for knowledge until then. Each week Dusty warned us about using weak words like as, that, was, sudden, and almost. He was adamant. Every week I scoured them from whatever I planned on reading to the group. Since then, I’ve fallen back into some old habits, but I haven’t had to dodge any lightning bolts from the heavens. I guess he’s giving me a pass.

He also pointed out things like when we began too many consecutive sentences with noun/verbs such as he ran, she cried, he turned. My favorite advice from him, however, was to be careful about “burying the dialogue” in a paragraph, and for gosh sakes, watch for those prairie dogs—the repetitive words continually popping up.

My prairie dogs’ names were “just and so.” If I were

IN A LIGHT MOMENT DURING A 2014 MEETING OF THE OZARKS WRITERS’ LEAGUE IN BRANSON, MISSOURI.

being honest, I’d have to confess that my writing had a whole litter of prairie dogs.

I’d only been in the group a few months when talk of a writer’s conference in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, came up. That sounded exciting, and I signed up along with the rest of the group. We all arrived late Thursday at the Ozark Creative Writers Conference and attended the meet-and-greet together. Just like at the bar-b-que, years ago, Dusty walked into the room and owned it.

The next conference we attended was the Oklahoma Writers Federation conference. All us gals followed him there too. I, along with his wife, Pat, Velda, and the rest of the girls in the group, followed him to those two conferences every year. After a while, we were known as Dusty’s Girls, and we all wore that moniker proudly. I mean, who wouldn’t?

He took care of his girls. Well, he took care of all writers. He wouldn’t take an excuse from us when we were tempted to hide in the background from fear of failure or any opportunity that intimidated us. He’d

put his proverbial boot between our shoulder blades and push us through our timidity and fear into success. When we stumbled into the publishing arena, he picked us up, brushed us off, and led the way. He did that for me. In fact, he got me my first agent. He put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Hey, buddy. I want you to send your manuscript to Terry Burns. He’s an agent, and I’ve already told him about you.”

With quaking nerves from fear of rejection, I sent it. To my utmost surprise, Terry accepted it, and, boom, I had an agent. I can only imagine what Dusty said to Terry about me. After all, this was my first manuscript. But whatever it was, Terry took me on.

As the years went by, more Dusty’s girls were added to the group. Because of him, we all grew in our craft. Some of us followed in his steps and became mentors, conducting workshops and teaching writing techniques. We speak to writer’s groups and at conferences. I guess you could say we are sparks from his fire, carrying on his mantle of mentorship. Many of us have several published books as well.

DUSTY, TAKING THE CEREMONIAL FIRST DRINK OF CHAMPAGNE DURING NWAWW ‘S ANNUAL CHRISTMAS PARTY.

DUSTY WITH HIS WIFE PAT AND FELLOW NORTHWEST ARKANSAS WRITERS WORKSHOP MEMBER LINDA QUALLS AT THE 1984 FREE CONFERENCE AT MOUNT SEQUOYAH.

Almost everyone who knows anything about Dusty knows he was a prolific writer, a multiple Spur Award winner, a licensed auctioneer, a rodeo announcer, and one of his books was made into an award-winning movie. But over the past twenty years, I learned other things about him, such as his love for trout fishing.

My husband, Neal, and I hosted the group’s yearly Christmas party in our home. Sometime during the evening, Dusty and Neal would wander off in a corner and talk about the fish they’d caught since the last time they’d spoken. Dusty’s catch was always as big as his arms could span. They’d share their favorite springs and secret fishing spots. He really enjoyed a good joke. Many times he’d sit next to me, lower his head in a conspiratorial manner, and murmur an antic before palming the table and exploding with laughter. My ears rang for hours, but my smile lasted far longer.

When I think of Dusty, I see him as a roaring fire in the hearth. It didn’t matter where he stood or sat, people were drawn to him. He warmed us with his generosity and acceptance. His light illuminated the way to writing success. As I write this, I still can’t believe he has ridden off into the sunset. Many of his girls had ridden on ahead of him, and I’m sure they were there to welcome him home. Even though he is gone from this earth, he lives on in all of us who remain.

Even though I’ll never stand in his giant shadow or delight in his bear hug of a laugh, I am, and will always be, a

LINDA APPLE -

latest children’s series, Winston’s Wisdom, chronicles the adorable adventures of Winston the Scottish Terrier, the

VELDA BROTHERTON AND LINDA APPLE, TWO OF THE ORIGINAL DUSTY’S GIRLS.

HEADED HOME CROSS-COUNTRY, I came off the cedar and live oak hills into the basin and found a piped spring with a cow tank made of rocks. Stepping off my jaded horse, I adjusted my pants and waded over in my chaps to get a drink. Ol’ Beggar was sloshing his bits in the water beside me, and I was belly down on the rock wall drinking the fresh cool water when a pistol shot about made me fall in the water to get back on my feet.

There, onboard a big sorrel horse, a blonde-headed girl under an expensive flat-crowned hat rode up, holding a smoking pistol aimed at my head. I looked behind her to see if she had any backup, but no one else showed up.

Talk about a brazen one. Why, she might be in her late teens at best.

I picked up my hat and looked hard at her. “Lady, you just shooting for practice?”

“No. I could have shot you. This is a deeded spring, and you haven’t any permission to drink from it.”

“When did a man need permission to drink from a Texas stock tank?”

“Since folks started stealing Y Bar Y cattle. Now,

you get you and that crowbait off the property and don’t come back. The likes of you aren’t welcome here.”

I brushed the dirt off the brim and reset it on my head. “You ever shoot at me again, little sister, and I’ll take that gun away from you and bust your a—

“Listen, drifter, if you don’t make tracks, I’ll shoot you so full of holes, you’ll be a sieve.”

I stuck my boot in the stirrup. Then, when she holstered the gun, I swung Beggar around and put spurs into him to charge her.

Shocked, she went for the gun again. Oh, no, we were doing things my way this time. I swept her out of the saddle with one arm around her waist and reined Beggar in with her screaming bloody murder. I put her on my lap and took the gun away from her. But then I was forced to drop it in order to fight off the hellion I’d taken. With her fists hammering my face and arms, I had to force her belly-down over my lap. Off balanced, we landed in a pile on the ground with her on top of me. Luckily, we missed the rocks.

Face red, she whipped around and slapped me. “Just who in the hell do you think you are?”

“Name’s Clint Cooper.”

“Well, my name’s Loretta Stone, and I’m having you arrested and hung for raping me.”

I began to laugh at the absurd charges.

“What do you think is so damn funny?” Her fancy hat hung by the stampede string around her throat, and her blonde hair hung over half a face. Two buttons of her dress had come undone during our tussle, exposing quite a bit of snowy white skin. Her gaze followed mine, and she gasped.

“Oh!” She slapped me again like I’d undone the damn buttons myself, then went about putting herself back together.

“You’ve been away at finishing school too long. Welcome home to Texas, darling.”

“My father will kill you for this.”

I shook my head and put my hat back in place. The fracas had knocked it askew, too. “You slap me once more, I’ll give you something to slap me for.”

“What is that?”

“For you to find out.” I climbed to my feet and offered her a hand. She refused my offer and stood up by herself.

“Now where has my horse gone?” She whirled around, but there was no sign of him. He must have run off while I was struggling with her.

“How should I know? Was he ground tie trained?”

Her boot clad feet standing apart she ignored me, opening and closing her fists like her anger was growing. Hell only knew, she might shoot me for him running away. Such a soiled, pretty thing, I could not believe how she’d ever survive living on her father’s ranch now that she was back in Texas. Well, she was no ward of mine—thank God.

I gathered my hat, brushed the dry grass and dirt off it, then put it on my head. When I reached Beggar, I stepped up into the saddle and watched her re-holster her big six-gun.

“If you’d drop all the charges against me, I’d take you home.”

Hands on her slim hips, I got that same damn scowl again. “I don’t want one damn thing from you, mister. You’re a scoundrel.”

“I can promise you those new boots will blister your feet walking that far in them.”

“How far do you think it is?”

“Well, Loretta, it’s about ten miles back to your headquarters.” I booted Beggar to go and headed south—her direction.

“Wait for me.”

I stopped him. “You want to ride with me?”

“Yes.”

I waited. Never turned back like I planned to go on.

“All right, mister. I won’t charge you with all that.”

“Won’t charge me with raping you. And my name is Not ‘mister.’”

“All right, Clint, I won’t charge you.”

“Will you dance with me next Saturday night at the Daisy Creek School house?”

“I didn’t plan to attend it.”

I booted Beggar with my spur.

“All right! I will dance with you wherever.”

I swung him around. “The Daisy Creek Schoolhouse potluck and dance Saturday night.”

“Yes, there.”

I shut the horse down facing her and repeated the event again.

“All right—Daisy Creek potluck and dance—I will dance with you there next Saturday night.”

“Good. Can I eat supper with you, too?”

“Yes, you may.”

I moved Beggar closer, dropped my arm down for her, and swung her up behind me. “Keep your heels out of his flank. He’s real goosey—”

Beggar gave one hop, and I checked him.

“I know, don’t put my heels in his flank.”

“Right. Now, Beggar, let’s take her home.”

We rode a mile or so, and she tried not to make contact with me riding atop my bedroll back there. Hard to do, though. And her form occasionally made an impression on my back—that was a nice deal. When I started up a shortcut I knew that ran uphill, she had to hug me so as not to fall off.

“You took this way on purpose—”

“Shush. I heard something.” I stopped the horse to listen. “Get off.”

“I hear cattle bawling. Why?” she whispered to me beside the side of the horse.

“They’re being herded. Now be quiet so we can see what’s going on.”

“You think it’s rustlers?”

I held my finger to her mouth. We got down and I hitched Beggar to a tree. Then we crawled under and though the cedars and live oak. On the crest of the hill, I motioned for her to get down. Obviously, someone or more were driving cattle north up this valley, and I wanted a look at them.

“What can we do?” she hissed.

I cupped my hand to her ear. “All we need is a good look at them. You and I can’t whip a band of hardcase rustlers up here.”

I saw a man on horseback approach, so I shoved her down. We lay on the pungent cedar needles, my six-gun in my sweaty hands. We were close enough to smell his sweat and body odor as he rode by on a bay horse. He wore a distinctive, curled-up brim on the back of his hat and a red bandana around his neck. I could find him lined up at any saloon bar. Probably smell him, too. I’d bet he hadn’t bathed in a month of Sundays.

“Why didn’t you shoot him?”

“Because—” I quieted her with a finger again. Two more riders passed by. One of their horses had a white sock on his right foot. The other was a big buckskin.

“Too many of them.”

She swallowed, then agreed with a nod. We waited until the rustlers had driven the cattle out of sight up the canyon.

“Where do you think they’re going?”

“Don’t know, but we might track ’em tomorrow.”

“Why not now?”

The rustlers were far beyond hearing when I finally let her up. I shook my head and fixed her with a hard stare. “Number one, you’re a girl. Those bas— outlaws—would hurt you if I failed. Too big a risk for one man against the three or more of them.”

Her blue eyes could get set so quick when mad at me. “And me being along stopped you?”

“That’s my story, and I’m certain someone can catch them.”

“Who’ll catch them?”

“Your father and his men. We have a description.”

She shook her head in disgust and struggled to her feet, brushing cedar needles from her skirts. “I’m not some China doll.”

Brushing needles off my shirtfront I motioned to

the horse. “No, but I’m not telling your dad I got you shot, either.”

Once I was back In the saddle, I hauled her up, ducked under some low-hanging branches, and we set off back down the hillside.

It was past sundown when the dogs welcomed us at the ranch’s headquarters. Bare headed, her sixfoot tall dad came out on the porch lighted by the open door. “Where the hell have you two been? Out snipe hunting?”

“My horse didn’t come home?” she asked, looking around in the dark

“No. That you, Clint?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I appreciate you bringing her home.”

She elbowed me in the ribs. “Tell him what we found. Go on!”

“Three rustlers were herding cattle north today.”

Mr. Stone gave a rueful head shake. “Come inside. I’ll see if we can follow them in the morning. You two haven’t had supper, have you?”

She looked at me and said, “No.”

“Carla, these two need some food. Come on in, Clint. Tell me about these rustlers.”

“I was coming back, and we met at the pipe spring. Her horse ran off, and I was bringing her home when we heard them over the hill moving cattle north. I didn’t want to butt in with her along, but I saw one guy had a turned up back brim hat I’d recognize and a bay horse with a white right hind sock.”

“Thanks. I’m glad to have my daughter back safe.”

“I asked her to attend the Daisy Creek Schoolhouse dance next Saturday night if that is all right?”

“Certainly.” He hugged her shoulder. “Carla has some food ready.”

I didn’t miss seeing her looking at the ceiling for help over his casual agreement to her going with me.

“Will that horse come home?” she asked him.

“He’ll be here by daylight.”

“Good.”

The three of us sat down. He drank coffee, and we ate some good food.

“I can’t believe you two met out there, and you found the rustlers, too.”

Honestly, I couldn’t, either.

SATURDAY MORNING, I BORROWED my neighbor’s buckboard and team to go pick up Miss Priss at her place, the Y Bar Y Ranch, and drive her to the dance. This was going to be an I-showed-you-so sort of deal. I had no idea how bad it might turn out. Be a lot less than anything she knew from going to finishing school.

She was ready when I arrived, and a kitchen worker put two baskets of food in the back.

“That’s our lunch and the food for the potluck.”

“Sounds great. That is sure a nice blue dress.”

“You don’t have to compliment me. As I recall, you blackmailed me into doing this.”

“What? Did you have an offer to go to the opera tonight or something?”

“Anyone ever tell you that you are impossible?” “No.”

“Have you ever had a wife or girlfriend before?”

“I was engaged once. The Comanche killed her.”

Her look at me turned to sad. “I am sorry.”

“So was I.” I clucked to the team to make them trot. “Clint, can you talk about it?”

“Myra Calico was eighteen. I met her at roundup. She was helping cook for all the cowboys. We struck up a friendship and went to dances when I could get over there. Her family lived about thirty miles west of here. We made plans to be married the next spring. That was in October two years ago. The Comanche made a fall raid under a full moon in November. They massacred her entire family. We never found her body. Is that good enough?”

“She must have been a strong person. Your story about her has about made me cry.”

“No need in that. She is with the good Lord, and I have been sentenced to live without her.”

She reached over and hugged my arm. Never said another word for several miles.

There was a place on the road to San Antonio where there was a hand pump and shade. I told her we’d stop there and have some lunch.

“Nice of you to think of that.”

When I was stopped, she stood up to get down.

“You better thank Carla, dad’s housekeeper, for that. I’m afraid you’d have had jelly sandwiches if I did it.”

I don’t know if I was supposed to laugh or not, but I took her by the waist and set her down off the buckboard. That took her back too, I could tell, that I could lift her and set her down on her feet. But I let it go. She didn’t need much to get her mad.

To prepare a place to picnic, she spread a blanket on the short-cropped grass and put down a wicker basket. Napkins, china plates, silverware, silver tumblers for glasses—I sat down cross legged.

“Would you ask grace?”

I swallowed and quickly agreed.

“Want to get on our knees and hold hands?”

“Why sure.” I moved closer, and we held hands. “Lord, Loretta and I are here today on a trip to meet our neighbors and celebrate life here on earth. I want you to help Paul Green who was in a horse wreck and needs your help. Granny Martin has a bad heart needs to be stronger. Lord, be in the heart of this

young lady and mine as we go through our lives here today. For us to be generous with the downtrodden and those really needing help. In Jesus’s name we pray. Amen.”

“Clint, you did well. He will bless our food.”

I’d sat back down on my heels and shook my head. “I haven’t done a lot of praying out loud. I had a lot to try to cover and plumb forgot the food.”

She kissed me on the forehead. “I liked what you said about us in your prayer. I can’t say you were in my heart until you said that—thank you. You are a very complex man. I understand about your loss, and I am not used to cowboys, but this afternoon—I see you in a different light.”

“I didn’t say that to change you in any way. But if we are going to share some time, I want you to respect me as well as I will respect you.”

“Thank you.”

She turned away, and I watched her shoulders shake. She was crying.

On my knees, I waded over and hugged her shoulders. “Loretta, we came to have some fun and live a little today. It ain’t a sad deal. I didn’t ask you to come up here to cry. I want to see you laughing and smiling.”

She looked at me with wet eyes. “I will do better.”

I gently dabbed at her cheeks with my handkerchief. “Maybe you should tell me about your mother while we have all these frank talks.”

“Oh, Clint, my mother divorced my father when I was eleven. He took my custody. She went to Tucson to meet, I understand, her lover. Dad decided I needed to go to a finishing school to save me turning out like my mother. Later, I wrote her letters when I could find her address, but she never answered them. Their divorce was not my fault. What she did was wrong, but I never had to have to wear her shoes, either.”

“That is not your fault at all. We can only live our own lives.”

She put her hand on my shoulder. “We’re learning

lots. I have some sausage sandwiches on Carla’s sourdough bread.”

“Sounds good to me.”

It was, too.

WE ARRIVED AT THE schoolhouse in the late afternoon, and she took her pies in the other basket Carla had fixed. I knew all those wives would have to quiz her. I only hoped she could take it and did not get mad. Her hair-trigger temper could explode awful easy.

I talked to some of my single buddies who asked where I got her.

Clyde Dawes said, “Why that’s… that’s Miss Loretta fresh from finishing school in St Louis. Boys, he’s done horned the rest of you out from her.”

“I wish him luck. She’s way too high priced for me.” Jed Clayton shook his head. “Clint how did you ever meet her?”

“I stopped by and took a drink at a spring. Her horse ran off, and I offered her a ride home. We about stumbled on some rustlers stealing their cattle.”

“You try to stop them?” Clyde asked me

I shook my head. “Too many with her there. Howard and his men will get them later. But he said they lost their tracks north of there.”

“Damn! A real sheriff had any help working for him they could stop them,” Jed said.

I set in on them. “Guys, we all know the sheriff has too much county to watch out for on his own. And we won’t have any law in Texas till them carpetbaggers leave Austin and we get the Rangers back.”

“We may all be old men by then,” Clyde said.

“Then what we need is a real posse and root every petty thief, troublemaker, and possible rustler out of this damn county.”

“If word got out about us taking the law into our own hands, we’d have a regiment of bluecoats camped out in our front yard forever”

I’d heard enough.

In a guarded voice I said, “I say we meet next Thursday night someplace we know is secure and form a group to end this problem. Start with the bunch stealing Howard Stone’s stock. But don’t everyone ride it together. Bring a flour sack mask and a rifle, plus a bed roll, in case we need it. We’ll clean that bunch up first, then we can herd the others out after that.”

“Only bring tight-mouthed men. Any doubt, don’t bring them,” Clyde said.

I agreed.

“Will Howard come?”

“I’ll talk to him. He wants rid of them badly. You’ll know others. Just be damn selective-like Clyde said.”

After looking around, the three of us split up. I went to find Loretta. My belly was growling, and she met me coming inside and smiling.

“Everyone acted pleased I came, Clint. I’m grateful you brought me.”

“Good. I figured you’d like it here. This is Texas social society. These people all work hard, and this is the outlet for that.”

“There is a preacher going to say grace next. I was going to get you.”

“Hope he remembers the food.”

She shook her head and smiled.

“Our father who art in heaven—” he began, and everyone inside joined him in the Lord’s Prayer. “Let’s eat this wonderful food.”

I noticed, this time, she had tin plates for this meal. Not being too fancy over here. I showed her my tin plate and said, “Thanks.”

Her hip to mine waiting in line, she nodded like she understood me. They taught her a lot in that school. She never had a mom growing up—that was hard to believe. My mom had lots to do with even my life as a boy at that age. I know she coached my sisters—all of them settled down, married, and had strong families from what I knew. Sounded to me like Loretta missed all that growing up. But she was an eye catcher in her blue dress and with her hair fixed.

We filled our plates and found a spot on the benches along the wall. She set her plate down and took two silver cups for our lemonade. Before she left, she leaned in close. “There weren’t any tin cans I could find.”

“Oh, to drink out of—that’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.” She went on with them.

We talked to the couples on both sides while we ate. How did you two meet? Had we known each other long? Did we have any plans?

“Right now,” Loretta said so tactfully, “we are here to greet and meet folks and find out if we can even dance.”

This one straight-backed lady on my left, Mrs. Jennings, said, “I have danced with him before, and you can dance with him.”

“Good news. I’ve worried all the way over here about that.” Then she waved her hands that it was only a joke, and they laughed.

“You sure needed to.” I went on eating and received an elbow for it and a grin.

Not a whole lot of humor came into my life. This we found, and it warmed me—being there with her, and it having worked so far. I worried about my small herd of cattle on the range and breaking horses. I did that for scratch money. Something always came along that required money, so breaking and trading horses financed those things. I also had some Mexican cattle fattening on the range besides my cows and calves. I was what the big ranchers called a two-bit outfit, but I did my share at roundup and made my part work.

My brand, the Quarter Circle X, was respected and a hard one to work over, though there were brand forgers who could change about any brand to something else. And despite everyone’s efforts, there was rustling going on. There’s some rustling going on about all the time. They called it “don’t eat your own beef.”

I was pretty enthralled with finding her after our rough start. After she washed our silverware and plates, she set them in a cloth sack under the bench, we waltzed to the fiddle music, and I felt I’d gone to heaven and died. She was like a feather to dance with, and her blue eyes sparkled the further we went around the floor.

By the time I was eight years old, my three older sisters had me practicing with them humming a tune. We took up the rag rug and danced. The three wore me out back then, but while that was work, if they hadn’t, I’d never waltzed that evening with her.

Then my single buddies found us. They took turns dancing and laughing with her, and I got to dance with Mrs. Jennings,

We were circling the floor full of dancers, and Mrs. Jennings very perfectly said, “I think they have you treed, Clint.”

They’d done it. That’s when a hunting hound has a coon up a tree and stays there barking until you come shoot it out. I was treed. But when I came back, I instructed those two I got every other dance with her and for them to dance with Mrs. Jennings, whose husband had two left feet.

Loretta was amused when we got ready, and they shouted, “Polka time.”

Boy, I swung her laughing around that schoolhouse dance floor. There wasn’t a German couple there could out dance us. We were both out of breath

when we staggered back, and she held up her hands in surrender. “I need to sit this one out,”

So, we sat the next one out and sat holding each other’s hands like we were afraid the other one would run off.

“Your friends are very nice men. They really appreciate you. Are there not any girls their own age around here?” she asked.

“You look around. Most girls get married very young out here. There are not many left for them unless they want to raise a wife.”

“Then I am an old maid?”

“Going on that,” I said.

Got an elbow for that, too.

She smiled at my buddies and took me by the hand back to dance with her.

“Why didn’t we bring bedrolls to sleep in?”

I frowned. “I didn’t want to ruin your reputation.”

“That’s a nice thought, but we’’ll be all night getting back home.”

“Next time, I will ask you. This time I was pleased I’d blackmailed you into dancing with me.”

“You’re right. If I had not met you at the spring, I’d have probably told you no. If you hadn’t located those rustlers so slick and took me home so nicely, I wouldn’t have come here with you and had the time of my life. Besides, I was out riding out of boredom, and you damn sure woke me up. Also, since I came home, I curse like my father does. For you, I will try to do better.”

Around the floor we went like no one was there but the two of us. I’d never had that feeling before with anyone. Not even when I courted the one I lost.

Her and how to handle the vigilante issue next. Her dad had been around. I bet he could help me on the law enforcement part. I’d ask him to.

“You worried about going home tonight?”

“Not with you, but we can be more practical next time. I do thank you—”

My finger stopped her. “Loretta. I respect you. I

won’t put your honor to any test that might smear your reputation.”

“How many sisters did you have?”

“Three older and two younger.”

“What did they do?”

“From eight o’clock on I had to dance with ’em at home even.”

On her feet laughing, she asked, “Will I get to meet them?”

“I suppose—” Then I stopped her. “There’s a fight outside. I better go break it up.”

“Don’t get hurt. Remember, you still have to drive me home tonight.”

I waved that I heard her. I slipped through the onlookers in the doorway, took the steps two at a time, and in the bonfire’s light, saw about four men throwing fists.

“Clyde, give me a hand. Break this up. We came here for fun not fighting.”

I jerked one fighter down on his butt and met his opponent face to face. “Quit. I mean it now.”

“You ain’t the gawdamn law up here. Ain’t none of your damned business.”

“Quit cussing, too. There are children here.” He drew back to hit me. I hit him with a haymaker blow to his upper belly, and the air went out of him. Bent him over, and my knee smashed his face putting him on his back holding up his hands and begging me to stop.

I swept up his hat and shoved it at him. “Load on up and get the hell out of here. Don’t come back till you can act decent.”

By then I had enough enforcers to back me. They retreated and left grumbling. I held up my hands. “We don’t need fighting or cussing with all these ladies and children here. You see anyone doing that, report it to one of us before it starts.”

Someone clapped, and then everyone clapped— but the sight that got to me the most was Loretta standing there with my pistol wrapped in my ammo belt. I’d put it under the buckboard seat when we first got there—no need to pack it there.

“Thanks, I won’t need it now.” Then I saw her still worried face, and I hugged and kissed her. “The deal is over. But that was sure sweet of you to fetch it for me.”

Eyes closed, she nodded. “I know who you are now.”

“What am I?”

“There were heroes I read about in English history. You are my knight in armor.”

I began shaking my head at her. “Aw, Loretta, I just want things to go right.”

“You can’t compliment him for a thing, Loretta. You just have to accept him like he is. Trust me, we’ve tried,” my pal, Jed, said.

“Thank you, Jed. I appreciate you guys for helping him too. Those guys were tough that you ran off.”

”Why Loretta, they weren’t half as bad as the Taggot brothers. Were they Clint? Why we got our clothing about tore off our backs fighting them one night. Them big old boys really liked to fight. Folks say when they can’t fight anyone, they fight themselves.”

His story had her laughing. She stood on her toes and kissed that tall galoot on the cheek. Hell, after doing that, he’d have broke his neck for anything she wanted.

“We better go inside. I’ll hang this gun up on the hat rack just in case.”

I herded both of them inside. The trouble was over… I hoped. It had been a great evening for me aside from those four troublemakers.

The longest trip you ever take is always going home. She got so sleepy for a while that she slept with her head in my lap, and I worried we’d hit a bump and throw her on the floor. No telling. The moon had gone down, and the stars weren’t real bright. Many hours later, I got down, and after hushing the dogs, I carried her in my arms into the house.

“Where is your bed?” I asked.

“Top of the stairs. Put me down. You may fall.”

I did and set her down. She grasped my hand and pulled me after her. Up we went, and the starlight showed on the bed.

“Shed your boots. We can sleep in our clothes.”

“We can’t do that here.”

“Shed your damn boots. I need you to hold me. I am shaking inside.”

She was not the only one shaking. I toed off my boots and followed her. We kissed, and then with her in my arms, I hugged her—she was shaking, but she soon fell asleep and hers quit. But I was locked with her, and I finally slept, too.

Oh, my God, what a deal to hold.

It was daylight, and someone was talking to us. Her and I fully dressed in each other’s arms—on the bed.

“You two missed a good sermon at church this morning. Carla has lunch ready. You two alive?” That was Howard in a suit standing in the bedroom doorway. My vision was not clear, but he did not hold a shotgun in his arms like I would have at this point if she’d been my daughter.

She sat up and tried to clear her eyes. “It is all his fault—” Then she broke out laughing.

“No harm done. Bring him along. She has a nice meal for all of us.”

I could hear him chuckling going down the stairs. She shoved me back down and kissed me hard. “I never had a better time in my entire life. Let me brush my hair. You were great. I would never have slept if you had not held me.”

The dress straightened, her hair brushed hard and fast, she smiled and led the way. Stopping to be sure I was coming. “You sleep all right?”

“No.”

“What was wrong?”

“Someday I’ll tell you—go on. It is too long to even start here.”

At the bottom she hugged my arm and whispered. “I can make it up to you.”

Smiling, we went apart into the dining room.

“Obviously, you two had a good evening. Clint, we pray before we eat.”

“That’s fine.”

He gave a short one. We began to pass things.

For her and me, from there on, after Sunday dinner, things went fast and furious. Before a week went by our marriage plans were set, but I never regretted any of it. I have a loving, smart wife, and the vigilante moves we made following our wedding ran off the rustlers. Things are a lot more settled, and the formation of a county is at hand. Folks say I’ll be the first sheriff. Good thing I have her.

DUSTY RICHARDS CELEBRATES RECEIVING HIS FIRST ROYALTY CHECK FOR HIS DEBUT NOVEL, NOBLE’S WAY.

A MENTOR, A WRITER AND A TRUE FRIEND

FEATURE

TERRY ALEXANDER

WHAT CAN YOU SAY about Dusty Richards? He was a friend and mentor, a good man, and a fantastic writer ready and willing to spend time with fledging writers. He offered his experience and years of expertise to help make every story better.

RONALD LEE RICHARDS was born on November 11, 1937, in Chicago, Illinois. His parents were John C. R. Richards and Jean E. Richards. His given first name got very little use. No one knew him as Ronald Lee. He was always Dusty. His father was a power plant engineer. When he was thirteen his family moved to Mesa, Arizona. A year later they moved to Phoenix. Dusty loved the Arizona lifestyle. He rode horses and participated in cattle roundups. His mother feared he’d become one of the broken-down cowboys without a true home. He graduated North Phoenix High School in 1955. He received his Bachelors-of-Science degree from Arizona State in 1960. During his Arizona years, he was hired as an extra in

several movies. Bus Stop with Marilyn Monroe and Don Murray and Johnny Guitar with Joan Crawford come to mind.

He told me once how he came to be in Arkansas. After he got his degree, he needed to find a job. Turned out that Arkansas was advertising for teachers. He and a friend came to the Natural State seeking employment. Dusty stayed, but the friend went back to Arizona. He taught high school biology and science at Huntsville and one year at Winslow. During the early days, he owned a cattle ranch near Winslow, Arkansas.

On June 5, 1961, he married Patricia Ann Donahoe. They had two daughters, Anna and Rhonda. They later moved to Springdale near Beaver Lake. He worked as an auctioneer, spent thirty-two years as a USDA Inspector at Tyson Foods, and then worked for Channel 40/29 in Springdale doing the Farm Report.

His ultimate goal was to be a western novelist—to join his heroes on the spinning book racks, to share

space with Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour. He spent some time at Zane Grey’s cabin in Arizona and promised himself that one day his westerns would be on the bookshelves.

I met Dusty in the early 90s, not exactly sure of the year. His first novel, Noble’sWay, had been published and FromHelltoBreakfast, the first adventure of the Rice Sisters, had just been released. I was at my first Oklahoma Writers Federation, Inc. conference. I wandered around attending various workshops when Peggy Fielding spotted me and struck up a conversation. She asked me what I was writing, and I told her I enjoyed westerns. She told me they were a tough sell, but she knew just the person I needed to talk to and led me to Dusty Richards.

After the introductions, Dusty asked me which author I enjoyed reading. I mentioned Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour, then I said that my favorite western author was Elmer Kelton. A big smile split his face,

VISITING LEGENDARY WESTERN WRITER ZANE GREY’S CABIN IN ARIZONA. DUSTY ALWAYS SAID HE SAT ON THE CABIN’S STEPS AND PROMISED HIS HERO’S SPIRIT THAT HE’D BECOME A FAMOUS WESTERN WRITER, TOO.

and he said, ‘Well, come over here and sit down.’ We spent the afternoon talking about cattle and vaccinations, hay baling, tractors, and the like. He told me about the Ozark Creative Writers Conference in Eureka Springs and invited me to come there. I think I’ve missed three conferences in Eureka since then. His wife Pat came to the book room, and Dusty introduced me to her. She was always a great lady and always friendly.

The second time I ran into Dusty was at Eureka Springs. He’d had a new Rice Sisters novel published entitled, By the Cut of Your Clothes. He told me then that it was going to be a trilogy, and the third novel was going to be titled Raring to Go. He was naturally excited and always enthusiastic. At that time, he was still entering a few contests at the various conferences as well as sponsoring different contests and judging others. He usually always won something with his entries.

Dusty rose from the canvas like a championship boxer and kept moving forward, to borrow a line from one of the Rocky movies. He published a fewbooks with small publishers before receiving an offer to pen some Jake Logan novels. For those that don’t know, Jake Logan was a pen name used by several writers that wrote John Slocum novels. Slocum was an adult western character. The novels were written according to a formula, and the hero was required to have carnal knowledge of the heroine in the piece after a certain page count.

as sponsoring different ers. He usually always

I ran into Dusty again at OWFI the next year. He told me that Pocket Books had released him from his contract, and they weren’t going to publish the next Rice Sisters book. To my knowledge, though, that novel has never been published. He wasn’t going to give up. He never would even think of giving up. When we talked at that conference, he talked a lot about bunch quitters. That’s an old Cowboy term. When the old cowboys were driving cattle from south Texas to Kansas and Missouri, several tried to circle back and go home. These were bunch quitters. He wasn’t going to be a bunch quitter. He wanted to lead the herd. I missed the writer’s conference at Eureka Springs that year and didn’t see Dusty until the following year.

eral people and was of numbers. Some were high as seventy, while others had the number more in the range of thirty-five or thirty-six. I

specialized in selling

I’ve tried to find out how many John Slocum adventures Dusty wrote. I asked several people and was given a wide range of numbers. Some estimates were as high as seventy, while others had the number more in the range of thirty-five or thirty-six. I found a website that specialized in selling autographed books.

The site offered nine Jake Logan books autographed by Dusty Richards for sale. The earliest one was and the Apache Ransom, Number 209, and the

The site offered nine Jake Logan books autographed by Dusty Richards for sale. The earliest one was Slocum and the Apache Ransom, Number 209, and the latest was SlocumandtheSenorita, Number 261.

When I met Dusty, he was still employed by Channel 40/29 in Springdale. After he left the station, he devoted himself to writing on a full-time basis, with occasional breaks to do some auctioneering and rodeo announcing. For twenty years he served as the announcer for the rodeo of the Ozarks. He also enjoyed the annual Chuckwagon races at the Bar 0 F Ranch near Clinton, Arkansas. Dusty was a member of the PRCA and the IPRA.

He was very active in various writer’s organizations. He served on several boards and was Presi-

dent of Ozark Creative Writers and Ozark Writers League on various occasions. He was a former Vice-President of Oklahoma Writers Federation Incorporated. I don’t believe he was ever President of that organization, but I could be wrong. He had a long association with Western Writers of America and was a past president. An organization that was close to his heart was the Northwest Arkansas Writers Workshop. He served as president of that group for many years.

When you’re talking about writer’s groups and Dusty Richards, you have to talk about Dusty’s Girls. He and Velda Brotherton created the Northwest Arkansas Writers Workshop many years ago, and the group came to be known as Dusty’s Girls. One year at an OCW conference (I believe), Pam Thompson won an award. I can’t remember who it was that introduced Pam as being in the Fort Smith Writers Group. Pam stood up and said, ‘No, I’m one of Dusty’s Girls.’ I talked to Ellen Withers at the 2021 OCW conference, and she told me that she was one of Dusty’s Girls, too. Dusty also created the Arkansas Ridge Writers for the OWFI conference. For a long time the group went head-to-head with the Tulsa Nightwriters and the Oklahoma City Writers Group. Today the Ridge Writers are barely hanging on.

Dusty had a favorite breakfast table at Myrtle Mae’s, a restaurant at the Best Western Inn of the Ozarks, where the OCW conference is held every year. I’ve sat at the special table and enjoyed breakfast with Dusty and Pat, and sometimes Dusty and some other writers. He’d be at his table and see you come in and wave you over. I know several people sat at the Dusty table over the years. I’ve seen Dusty win several writing awards in the ’90s and accepted a few from him myself. He always had a handshake and a pat on the back for the contest winners.

In 2000, the Arkansas Writers Conference honored Dusty with the Cowboy Culture Award for the long hours he spent helping aspir-

ing writers. TheNatural won Fiction Book of the Year at the Oklahoma Writers’ Federation writers conference in 2003. A feat he duplicated the next year when TheAbileneTrail, written as part of the Ralph Compton’s Trail Driver series, won the award again. In all he produced five books under the Ralph Compton handle, the last being TrailtoCottonwoodFalls.

I was lucky enough to be on hand at the Arkansas Writers Conference in Little Rock in 2004 to see Dusty inducted into the Arkansas Writers Hall of Fame. Three years later in Springfield, Missouri, he won two Spur Awards from the Western Writers of America for The HorseCreekIncident in the Best Original Paperback Novel Category, He also won for Best Original Short Fiction for the short story “Comanche Moon.” In 2010 he was honored with the Will Rogers Medallion Award for western fiction for his novel Texas Blood Feud. That same year The Cowboy Hall of Fame and Western History Museum honored Dusty with the Western Heritage Award in the Literary/Western Novel category for TheSundownChaser. A guy named Tom Selleck was on hand and picked up a minor award. In 2016, he finished in second in the Will Rogers Medallion Awards in the Western Romance category for A Bride for Gil. Dusty won his third Spur Award in 2017 for The MustangerandtheLady in the Best Western Traditional Novel Category. In 2018, Dusty received a Special Memorial Award for GoldintheSun in the western novel category at the Will Rogers Medallion Awards, and another for the Mountain Man novel Zekial in 2019.

The Mustanger and the Lady— which also happened to be Dusty’s 150th published novel was also adapted for the silver screen with the movie Painted Woman in 2017. The film was produced by Chasing Sunsets Pictures and Dark Highway films. The movie starred Stef Dawson as Julie Richards, Matt Dallas as Frank Dean, Kiowa

Gordon as Chato, and David Thomas Jenkins as Vince Wagner. The movie was filmed in Oklahoma with James Cotton directing.

To say Dusty was ecstatic that a movie was being made from one of his books would be an understatement. He sent an e-mail to me a few days before the movie was scheduled to be shown in Poteau, Oklahoma. It said, ‘Hey, Pard. They’re going to show my movie at the theater in Poteau this weekend. Come down and watch a good movie and eat some supper with us. Some of the actors and the director will be there. Hope you can make it.’ That was the end of October of 2017.

Phyllis and I met up with Dusty and several other people that night. We sat by Dusty and Pat and enjoyed a great western film. Afterward we went to Sirloin Stockade for an early birthday celebration. I got Dusty to autograph one of the small posters from the movie and still have it put away today.

Unfortunately, this was the final time I saw Dusty and Pat alive. They were both involved in a horrific car accident on December 19, 2017. Pat passed from this life on January 10, 2018, which happened to beher birthday. Dusty hung on for just over another week until January 18. I don’t think he wanted to be around without Pat.

Dusty was all about the craft of writing and helping others learn and hone the skill. I sat in the audience several times and listened to him talk about scene and sequel, how to break a novel down to four basic parts. While there are only seven basic plotlines, today’s writer had to put a special spin on those stories and make them unique. What can anyone say about Dusty Richards? He was a great friend, a good man, and a mentor to thousands of people across several states, but most of all, he was a dear friend to me.

—TERRY ALEXANDER and his wife, Phyllis, live on a Creative Writers, Tahlequah Writers, Western Writers of conference, though, don’t let him convince you to take part

IT TOOK MAYBE FOUR months to get there— week after week in the saddle with the dust in your eyes, the relentless bawl of the herd ringing in your ears. Two thousand head of cattle make a hell of a racket when they stampede. They rumble across the prairie like thunder chasing the lightning, the boys racing after them on horseback like a following wind. It’s all tough, but being the boss—that’s the hard part of these drives.

He dropped off the rise and saw a soddy and a fenced garden beside it. Smoke rose out the chimney from a cooking fire. A young woman came to the door. She looked tired, and he wondered if she had children. Then he noticed three fresh small graves beside her garden fence.

He dismounted and took off his hat for her. “My name is Lang Holder. I’m in charge of that herd going north just west of here. I took a ride out to see the country. You have a nice house.”

“Sit down on the bench. I am glad to talk to you. I have not seen another human in four weeks.” She took a seat beside him with her hands beside her legs along the wash worn dress. The look on her face said

she was mesmerized, looking hard at his horse grazing through the bits and the rolling grass country like he wasn’t even there beside her.

“Did your children die of something?”

Two wooden nods were all she did. “I tried to die, but it didn’t kill me.”

“What did you have?”

She shook her head. “They were bad sick, and nothing helped them. I had some medicine that cured things. Didn’t work. I was worried. I was real sick. Had a bad fever. The little one, Janet, died first. Sam expired next, then my five-year-old boy, Ted, slipped away. Took me two days to dig their graves. I’m getting better, but I don’t know why.”

“God intended for you to live.”

She turned and frowned at his comment. “What makes you say that? What for?”

“To continue. Where’s your man?”

Tears streamed down her face, and she sobbed, “He’s dead, too.”

“How long ago?”

“The last man came to see me was a man he worked for. He told me that Paul died of a disease he

explained that sounded like our later one. Paid me a little money. Said it was all he had and left me some food. Three days later the children were down sick.”

“That’s terrible. You think he brought the disease?”

“I don’t know. My kids started getting sick three days after he left.” She rocked on the bench on her hands and shook her head.

“What is your name?”

“Kendra Stone.”

“Lang’s mine.”

‘You have a wife?”

“No. My fiancée died two years ago in a buggy accident weeks before our wedding.

She reached over and clutched the top of his hand. “That was terrible.”

“I wondered why I wasn’t with her and killed too.”

She nodded.

“What will you do?”

“What can I do?”

“Start life over.”

She nodded numb like but never looked up. Then she wet her lips. “I am sitting here in rags. I need a sponge bath, my hair washed, and to clear my head. You don’t have a wife, so I won’t be hurting your marriage or reputation if you would please a desperate woman.”

“What is that?”

“My husband had been away from me for months working on a job before he died. I am a woman. Dirty, and not too neat, perhaps, but if you forgive my boldness, could I be your bride today?”

“Kendra, would that help you?”

“I think so. Would you wait for me to do that? Clean up, I mean.”

“I could do it with you if you would let me and be honored.”

Her blue eyes looked into his face. “That would not turn you away.”

“No. We could do it together, and I won’t embarrass you.”

“I need to heat some water.”

With the water heating, she undressed in the shadowy house. “You aren’t embarrassed to see me naked, are you?”

“No, you look like an angel.”

“Hardly an angel.”

“You want to back out?”

“No, I would rather kiss you.” Her shoulders slumped down. She shook her head at him.

They kissed, and he held her bare shoulders. “Get your shoulders back. I think you once were a proud girl. Become one again.”

“It will be hard.”

“No, it will help your spirits.”

She straightened her shoulders, and he smiled. When the water was hot, he washed her back and then rinsed it. Her arms were next, and she took care of her under arms. When she started on her breasts, he took the rag away and washed them with care. Her shoulders were back, and she made a beautiful picture as he gently moved the rag over her. She pulled back, and he found the small stretch scars from her pregnancies. When he finished, she stood, and he continued. He noticed the change in her stance. This was no longer the haggard woman who met him at the door. She had a new look, and he liked it.

They washed her hair in yucca soap and worked to scrub it clean, then rinsed it with rainwater from a barrel. They dried it with flour sack towels, and then they kissed some more. She sat on his legs at ease. They took turns at brushing her hair and exchanging soft kisses with each other.

“I don’t know how to tell you, but you have kissed me more than he ever did in six years.”

“Really?” He could hardly believe her words.

She leaned her face on his shoulders. “He never was mean or cross with me. He just wasn’t a kisser.”

“Now we are close to finishing the first part. Do you have any doubts about the rest of our deal?”

“No. You’ve been very kind.” Time to kiss again.

“If we have a nice time, and we agree, I want you to go home to Texas with me and become my wife at the first preacher we can find.”

She looked pained at him. “I’m certain you could find and marry a virgin bride.”

“I’ll say it again. If you liked the affair we have today, then wait for me. I will be back in two months from Abilene, and we’ll go to Texas. And then we’ll get married.”

She began to unbutton his shirt. He kissed her.

“Don’t say no more, or I’ll cry.”

He took the shirt off over his head and twisted to put it on her table.

“Let me take my gunbelt off.”

He rose, undid it, and hoped she didn’t see his hands shake when he hung it on a chair. While he stood, she undid his belt and then his fly.

She pulled on the sides of his legs, and the trousers fell to his knees.

“You made it hard to get my boots off.”

“I’m sorry.” She bent down and pulled the first one off, then the other and smiled standing before him, drawing off his pants.

He swept her up and took her to the bed.

“Let me down. I have a new sheet from my wedding day. I never used it.” She kissed him and whispered, “Thank you.”

He closed his eyes. Why did she worry so much about that? She broke away and ran to a trunk. Holding it up, she said, “Jerk that sheet off.”

He did, and she whipped out the fresh sheet, and he helped her. They met in the middle and crashed into one another. They kissed, aligning their bodies and soon were man and wife.

When it was over, the silence was long. He knew he must tell her.

“I want you to wait for me. Two months and I’ll be back here, and our honeymoon will really begin.”

They kissed, and he couldn’t get enough of her mouth. Finally, they parted, and she took a long minute to catch her breath.

“I will wait forever for you. I’m a mess, and I know you must get back to your herd.” Her knee on the bed, she chewed on her lip.

He waded across the cob mattress back to her.

“Oh, Lang, if you will have me, I will sure be your bride.” He fell to kissing her, and she hugged his head.

“I hope I didn’t shock you,” she said using her fingers to comb her hair from her face. “But you bring out a little devil in me.”

“Keep him. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Kendra, we will have the best life that you can imagine when we get home.”

“I will be clean and ready when you return.”

“It will be hard to part with you.”

“Whatever you like—we can do it any way. You are a neat gentle person.”

“I have fifty dollars for you. That should buy a wedding dress and food for while I am gone. Be very careful with it. I’ll hurry back here once my business is done.”

“Where do you live in Texas?”

“Kerrville. We will buy a ranch near there.”

He dressed and kissed her goodbye, put the money in her hand, and went for his horse. On the rise, he waved to her and then swung the horse around and raced away.

Back at the chuck wagon an hour later, he sat on a bench eating his evening meal after the men were through.

“You find anything today?”

“Yes,” he said between bites. “I found my wife.”

The crusty old man who served as cookie cleared his throat. “Where is she?’

“She’s fine over in her soddy.”

“You can’t leave her out there. There are Indians, hard cases, and rapists running all over this prairie. Go back and get her. I can clean up this male bunch, and I’ll make ’em piss further away. They’re just bashful boys that will honor her.”

“Jake—I—”

“Saddle a horse for her first light and bring her back. We won’t go over fifteen miles—more like twelve. We have a tent she can use.”

“I guess so. We can get her things coming back. I’d die if anyone hurt her while I was gone.”

“Do it first thing.”

“I will. I will.”

IN THE MORNING, HE picked a small tame horse out of the remuda. Jake found him a small saddle in the chuck wagon and two tow sacks for her things.

He used a big stout bay horse called Shivers and

lead Shorty. He set out for her place. Meadowlarks rushed along his way. Some prairie chickens flushed, and a red tail hawk scolded him for invading their land. He topped the rise, and he saw her rush out the door and shade her eyes with her hands.

He dismounted on the fly and ran to hug her. He whirled her around in a circle. “I changed my mind. I’m taking you along. I can’t worry about you for two months. We can get some things now and the rest when we come back.”

She jumped up and down and kissed him. “Oh, Lang, I am so excited.”

He swept her up in his arms and carried her in the house. He stopped at the bed in the middle of the room. “We better be sure this is going to work.”

“I think we better, too.”

THEY DROVE THE CATTLE to Abilene and sold them. He did well and sent his money back to San Antonio by Wells Fargo. He bought a buckboard, and they went back to her place and loaded all her things in the wagon.

At that point he told the hands going home to not run the horses and Jake’s mules to death. He’d see them in Kerrville at his father’s place and square up with them there. Him and Kendra were going to get married at Fort Worth, and they’d be along.

She stood on her toes and kissed each one of his crew on the cheek and thanked them. They blushed and thanked her, wishing her and him well.”

THEY HAD SIX CHILDREN, and both lived to be ninety. Together they built a big Texas ranch kingdom, and folks still talk about the dedication they had for each other. Family members, who tried to trace her ancestry, never got beyond her wedding to Logan Stone in Missouri at age twenty. He was twenty-four. Her maiden name was never listed.

DUSTY PROUDLY SHOWING OFF THE POSTER FOR HIS 150TH NOVEL, THE MUSTANGER AND THE LADY, SHORTLY AFTER IT WAS OPTIONED TO BE ADAPTED FOR THE SCREENPLAY PAINTED WOMAN.

FEATURE

THE RANCH BOSS

HIS ROUTINE OFTEN HAS him up before sunrise to write before the day begins. Even on the morning of this interview in mid-February, he’d already written out ten pages of his newest book.

“I’m just grateful to have written a hundred and fifty books,” said Richards. “I like to write. Early on, I just didn’t know how to put it any order. I still don’t have complicated stories.”

Richards approaches the main character as himself in the role but observes as an artist.

“When you write that someone is riding a horse, the reader will know what that looks like,” said Richards. “What I believe, all that I have to do is to try to make the reader believe that character from the inside out. What are his thoughts? Is he sad? Is he happy? We all have experienced the lack of confidence. It’s human nature. So, when my characters experience that, the reader knows what that feels like. My people are not Supermen, but they do have to be extraordinary humans.”

Richards writes his books with the audience in mind. The first thing he does when he starts a new book is to establish where the character begins and goes from there. “Never let a reader ask the question: Where are we? You want them to think about the character.”

Richards takes the reader inside of one character instead of bouncing from different points of view to tell his stories. “It’s just my style and how I write. I want the reader to live for this person.”

Richards is home within the Wild West. He spent his early years in Washington state but was mesmerized by the early cowboy serials. When his folks moved to Arizona, it was just another step in Richards’ long journey to become closer to being what his mother always dreaded for him... a cowboy. “She used to tell me that I was going die in a bunkhouse without any family. It wasn’t until I sold my first western did she really stop worrying about me.”

He did well in school growing up with A’s and B’s, but never really studied and skipped school a few days. While he did graduate college, taught school for a bit,

and His Transition to the Silver Screen

GEORGE “CLAY” MITCHELL

DUSTY RICHARDS’ NINE RULES OF WRITING

IgottoknowDustylateinthegame. He was already a largerthan-life character I’d heard about through others before I even met him. I didn’t get to visit with him much, but there wasn’t a single person who had anything negative to say about him or his wife, Pat.

Their support and presence meant a lot to so many who are still dear friends of mine. They talk about Dusty, and I’m a little jealous of their memories and stories. I had one interview with Dusty almost a year before he and Pat were gone. It hurt because I would not have any new memories of Dusty or Pat, so I hung on to what others regaled and shared about them.

When I sat down with Dusty, we met for a late lunch at Big Jake’s in Van Buren, Ark. He had never been there but was impressed with the chosen venue, a heralded shrine to John Wayne. The restaurant burned down sometime after Dusty’s death, and it never came back. It was as if it served its highest dignitary and decided that it couldn’t do any better than Dusty Richards.

Looking back over my article today, I realized how crude and amateur it seems in parts. I want to think I’ve grown as a writer since then, and it hit me… I’ve been following Dusty’s Rules of Writing. It wasn’t anything explicitly explained or even outlined. Dusty didn’t even say, “these are my rules.” It was just how he got it done.

I have one book he’s autographed for me, TheMustangerandtheLady. His inscription was that he couldn’t wait to see what stories I would write. I never got a chance to share mine with him, but keeping to his rules, a bit of Dusty travels with me on my writing journeys.

1. Establish a writing routine.

2. Place yourself in the role of the characters, but observe them as an artist.

3. The characters don’t have to be superheroes, but they DO have to be extraordinary.

4. Find a good critique group or writing partner to share with. Pay attention to what works and what doesn’t

5. Write for the audience but never let them be confused.

6. Research and knowledge augment your characters.

7. View the world with wonder.

8. Don’t give up. Keep writing.

9. Support others in their writing craft.

worked as an auctioneer, rodeo announcer and at Tyson Chicken for over 30 years, it was his love for the Old West that kept drawing him back.

His work on a ranch—and even at the rodeo— throughout his life only augmented his storytelling. “It adds to what I’m telling. Knowing about windmills and knowing how to fix them is something cowboys would have to do. So, that helps me with my writing.”

If it’s not something he has done, Richards has researched it. From revolvers to rifles to mining. He added that he learned the most about the Old West from reading old newspaper articles.

Richards launched into a rise of the American West after the Civil War and how it was tied to moving cattle from Texas to the other parts of the United States. The nuance of cattle trails from Texas to Kansas City... how the railroad stretching across the country created the collusion of two worlds... and how the railroad stops could make or break early towns and settlements if they stopped at the town or not... was as artfully told as any of his stories.

“It’s American history, our history. Those cattle drives were our crusades,” Richards said. “It was cheap to buy cattle in Texas and sell them for a big profit in Missouri, but it required going across tough country.”

Richards spends his time writing, teaching writing to

budding authors, and traveling, especially touring Wyoming and Montana. When in school, Richards made up westerns for his book reports knowing his teachers wouldn’t look it up to see if the books were real. “There was a disdain for westerns back then. The teachers didn’t like them, so I knew I could get away with it.”

Richards felt his latest release, TheMustangerand theLady, was good enough to be published, but initially it was turned down. So, he worked on it some more and set it aside. It wasn’t until Oghma Creative Media founder Casey Cowan got a hold of the manuscript did it find new life.

“Casey thought it was a John Wayne story,” Richards said. The book is slated to become a motion picture, the first one of his stories to make it to the big screen.

Richards said he wrote six to ten books before he sold his first one. “Don’t give up. Keep writing. Find yourself a writer’s group and pay attention to what works and what doesn’t work.”

—GEORGE “CLAY” MITCHELL is an award-winning reporter and photographer, as well as a founding partner of Saddlebag Dispatches and its parent company, Oghma Communications, where he serves as Chief Publishing O cer.

THE SUPERSTITION MOUNTAINS EAST OF PHOENIX, ARIZONA.

MEMORIES OF THE DESERT... IN A SHOEBOX?

BARBARA CLOUSE

Saddlebag Dispatches Research Director

GOLD IN THE SUN, WRITTEN by Dusty Richards, is one of my favorite western novels. Every scene and venture across the Arizona desert reminded me of the places in the Valley of the Sun where I grew up. Dusty and I shared that love of this contrasting but beautiful environment that ended up in most of his stories.

Many times during conferences and seminars, Dusty would sit in the foyer or lounge areas of the convention lobby to relax. Before long, writers would join him and start a conversation. Dusty engaged everyone in sharing of ideas and topics of interest. On one of these occasions, we discussed the appeal in westerns to place the characters in challenging situations in the harsh climate of Arizona’s dry landscape and rugged mountains.

Since he’d also grown up there, during his college days of ranching, rodeoing, and exploring, Dusty knew the magic of the desert in all seasons of the year. In the early 1990’s at one of these coffee table discussions, someone asked him if he ever missed the Arizona climate of his younger years. He expounded on all the places he’d

been but said he liked his place east of Springdale, Arkansas. Dusty did admit that he enjoyed his days in the Phoenix area, and he missed the smell of the desert.

Usually a quiet listener in groups like this, I spoke up and told him that I could send him the smells of the desert. I shared with the crowd that half of my family still lived in the small, agricultural community of Coolidge, Arizona, where I graduated high school. I traveled to see them at least once a year, and I had already planned my next vacation to see my mother and siblings. Everyone thought it was a great idea.

October is always a good time of year to visit the Valley of the Sun, admire the Superstition Mountains, tour the Casa Grande Ruins, touch base with my friends at the University of Arizona in Tucson, and enjoy the cooler desert air. It was a great time to hike through the dry riverbed of the Gila River north of town, hunting for the smells of the desert.

My mother had a small shoe box, so my sister helped me locate some smooth rocks in the riverbed, a handful of sand, a small piece of dried cactus skeleton, and a tiny

He missed the smell of the desert,

chunk of driftwood. We walked away from the riverbank to find an old mesquite tree, so some twigs and leaves went in the box. Small pieces of desert sage, dried ocotillo cactus, and bark from a palo verde tree were added. A few leaves from an old creosote bush and some broken spines from a barrel cactus concluded our stash. There were many other favorites nearby, like saguaro, cholla, and prickly pear cactus, but we ran out of room in the small package. I mailed the box to Dusty, hoping that the small container’s contents would evoke some memories for him. In later years, he and Pat traveled all over the country for meetings and book signings, while his list of published western novels continued to grow. He thanked me many times, for that “desert in a box,”, as he shared more stories of his Arizona adventures.

BARBARA CLOUSE is retired from the Departmentdening, growing gourds for art projects, genealogy, and

VIEW OF THE MILKY WAY OVER DUSTY’S OLD STOMPING GROUNDS, DOWNTOWN PHOENIX, ARIZONA,

MARK HANSON USED HIS six-inch jack knife blade to scrap the duck butter out from under his toenails. Seated on a ladderback chair and his left leg cranked up over his right one, he could have used his reading glasses to see his handiwork better. Wearing his red union suit in the coal oil lantern light, he must have made a sight—but he wasn’t looking for no company to drop by the Box 6 line shack that late at night, so it really didn’t matter what he wore or nothing at all. But it was little late in the cool season to go natural.

The days had been warm enough for December, but about supper time, the old north wind began howling out of the Keystone Mountains, and some high clouds came floating in. He’d spend most of the fall after roundup in the line camp looking for mavericks they’d missed and trying to keep the losses down by shooting painters every chance he got.

Mountain lions, cougars or painters were all the same species. They liked colts the best—easier to kill, and folks said horse meat was sweeter than beef anyway. But some dumb yearling heifer off grazing by herself made easy pickings for one of them big

cats. He’d shot two that fall and a third one got away packing some of his lead. He’d skinned the others out and stretched their hides on the side of the shack and the shed.

Been so dang long since he got a letter from his kin folks in Arkansas, he guessed they’d all died. Course Arizona was twelve hundred miles from there, so he’d stopped looking for any after his ma died. Been ten years since she’d sent him a Christmas fruit cake in a tin box. Why he’d rationed that last one out till spring, but Maw Hanson died about then. No one else back there knew him, he’d been gone so long.

But he was going to Soda Springs on the fifteenth, get his supplies, his red tin jug of coal oil refilled and check the mail. Buy a few small pints of hooch for when he was too stiff to get out of bed and get his supplies that Mr. Grady who owned the Box 6 would have ready to go in his panniers.

Poor man didn’t know much about ranching. He was from back east somewhere, but he treated the hands fair enough and Mark liked the line shack work. That way he didn’t have to listen to the palavering of some loose tongued kid night after night. There were

times that Mark wondered how long he could stay on the ranch payroll. Maybe several more years barring a bad horse wreck or a tough accident.

Stubby Garret was past seventy when a colt piled him off in a deep canyon and broke his neck. The old man never suffered a minute, Doc said. Lamey Smith died of bad food by hisself in a line shack—that wasn’t a great thing. No one knew he was ill, and the poor devil must have lingered for days, before he went on to the big sky.

But he’d be sad leaving this life. Since the war, he’d wandered across the west working for outfits, learning how to toss a rope and ride a cold-backed one. Barbed wire changed many things. The Hereford and Shorthorns weren’t as tough as them old longhorns he started with driving them to Kansas.

He snapped his jackknife shut and blew out the coal oil lamp. Time to get some shut eye—took a lot more of it than it used to—sleep that was.

On the fifteenth, he saddled Ike before sunup,

strapped a pack saddle and panniers on Squeaky, the shortest horse in his string, and headed for Soda Springs. Collar turned up on his heavy canvas-sided coat, he hunkered down in his Porter saddle and headed out.

He rode down Dry Wash about mid-morning and smelled mesquite smoke. Curious, he sent his horse up where the bank was caved off and looked across the greasewood flats. Sure enough, he saw a new adobe house near where there used to be a seep. Never had much water in it, but it probably needed to be developed. He could hear something making a pounding sound, and when he rode closer, he saw a boiler and steam engine plus a derrick rig like they used to drill oil wells. Dumb fool. There was no oil out there. But you couldn’t tell some folks nothing—they simply needed to learn.

A big burly young man with heavy leather gloves was doing the drilling. He shut off his winch and climbed down.

“Found anything yet?” he asked, dismounting. “My name’s Mark Hanson, by the way.”

“Iverson. Nope, but I ain’t a hundred feet down. Tough rock, but I’m making about five feet a day.”

“You think there’s water down there?” Mark took off his cowboy hat and scratched his head.

“You know about artesian wells?”

“Heard of ‘em.”

“Well, Mark, if I find some it will come pouring up here and turn this place into a Garden of Eden.”

“It surely will, but I ain’t much on believing there is any of that water under this old caliche, but I’m wishing you good luck, sir.” Mark started to remount his horse.

“Hold up. My wife’s coming with coffee for us.” He pointed to a woman headed from the house with a coffee pot and tin cups rattling in a poke. Something bothered him about the way she walked

“I wasn’t looking for a handout,” he said, feeling like he had overstayed his time and dropped the reins.

“This ain’t a handout, it’s just being neighborly,” Iverson said. “Meet your neighbor, darling. His name’s Mark Hanson.”

“Oh, good day, sir,” she said. “My name is Mary. Do you live close by?” Shocked, he realized that the woman was blind.

“Oh, over by them mountains—I’m sorry I just realized that you can’t see them.”

“They’re purple from here and one sticks out, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“How do you know that?”

“Iverson has described all the sights around this place, so I’d understood where I was at.”

“How long you two been here?” he asked her.

“About four months. This is December fifteenth. Ten days till Christmas.”

“It sure is. I’m going into Soda Springs to get my mail, my pay, and my provisions for six more weeks.”

“Will you be sending any Christmas cards?” she asked as Iverson took charge of the coffee. He poured

three cups and told her to sit down on the stool he brought over for her.

“Sugar, Mark?”

“No, ma’am, Drink mine black. Guess I been in so many dang cow camps that had neither, so I just stopped taking it.”

“You’ve been a cowboy all your life, sir?” she asked.

“Since the war. I came to a crossroads coming home and said, by doggies I’d heard lots about Texas, and I decided to see about becoming one. For ten years I drove cattle to Kansas. Then I went to see Montana but it was too cold up there for me, so I drifted south.”

“Why you must have enough experience to write a book about it,” she said, sipping on her cup.

He chuckled. “Sure thing. The old cowboy from Arkansas, who never run an outfit, never had a wife, had some broken bones, rode some fine horses, but never one of his own that amounted to a hill of beans.”

“That could be very interesting reading.”

“I guess, but who’d want to read a book about an old geezer punched cows all his life.”

“I bet there are lots of people back east that would love to hear your tales of the frontier.”

Mark shook his head. “Miss Mary, that book business would be a flop, I’m afraid.”

“Would you drop back by and tell us some of those stories?” Iverson asked. “I’d take them down and she’d know how to paint the words.”

“If I find time, reckon I will.”

“You do that and have a nice trip to Soda Springs. And Mark, come back Christmas Eve. We’ll have food. Hot chocolate and string popcorn on a tree. No reason not to have Christmas, even out here.”

“No, there ain’t,” he agreed. “I sure like your coffee, too. Bet it’s Arbuckle.”

“Of course it is!” She smiled and got to her feet.

“Now there isn’t any need in that. I can catch my own horses.”

“Sure you can, but I was going to ask to feel your face so I’ll know what you look like next time you come by.”

“I don’t reckon it would hurt.” He swung off his sweat stained hat and she gently traced his nose, eyes, lips and mouth.

“You’re a kind man, Mark. Thanks for being so nice.” She stepped back.

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll come down here Christmas Eve if that would be alright. Reckon I can find us a short juniper tree up in the Keystones. There’s some grows up there.”

‘Would you?” She clasped her long hands together. “That would be so wonderful. I was worried about finding one.”

“No problem. You got popcorn?”

“Plenty of that. You just come, sir.”

“Me and that tree will be coming, ma’am.” He waved to Iverson back on his drilling and watched them hug. Sweet people.

Mark must have hummed Old Dan Tucker all the way to Soda Springs. Been a long time since he had Christmas with anyone but some muddy soldiers in Mississippi the last winter of the war. A sloppy mess was what that was. They ate a wild goose some soldier had shot on the ground, and it had tasted like the dang mud, too. Yuck. Maybe that was why he liked the desert so much now.

At the old German’s store, he got his supplies loaded, coal oil can filled, bought two pints for medicinal purposes and found some sure enough blue material on a bolt for a dress. Surely, she could get it made. The old German, Hans, who ran the store asked about the material—he said he might send it to his relatives back home later. None of that old coot’s business.

Then he sprung the extra dollar and bought a rum fruit cake in a tin. There was no letter nor package for him. It all put away in his panniers, he waved goodbye to Hans who told him to wait and ran out with a small sack of hard candy.

“How much is a writing tablet?” he asked the man. “And two pencils?”

“Thirty cents.”

“Good, go get them. I may write some letters.”

“Jou ain’t wrote a letter in all dez years I knowed jou.” Hans shook his head, but he got the paper and pencils anyway.

“Well, I just might start.”

Mark paid him and heard Hans’ garbled Merry Christmas, he shouted back, “Same to you.”

He stopped about sundown at the Iverson’s and

shared his candy, while Iverson kept up his pounding and she sat on her stool overseeing things. He put the two tablets and pencils in her hands and closed them. She perked up realizing his gift.

Squatted down in his run over boots, he spoke to her, “I’ll start coming over when I can, and he can write them down. I’ll try to recall the stories, and you can make them in good English, huh?”

“Oh! Can I hug you?”

“If he won’t get jealous?”

She stood and held out her hands holding the treasures he gave to her to hug him. “Look Iverson, look. He brought paper and pencils for you to write down his words.”

“Good,” the man said, holding the cable in one gloved hand that went up and down, ready to stop his operation in an instant if the drill bit hung up before it broke his cable.

With one of her sandwiches of prickly pear jam in his hand, he ate it riding on home.

Christmas eve came quickly. Despite the cool weather, he took a good sponge bath, shaved and washed his too long hair. He must have spent most of the day heating the iron on the cook stove top to flatten the wrinkles in his go-to-meeting clothes.

After lunch, he saddled his gentlest horse to drag a juniper bush on a rope over to the Iverson’s for the festivities. He had the material Mary had requested in a poke, along with the fruit cake. This time he didn’t worry about making it last all winter—why they might just eat it all that night.

He came out of the draw and blinked his eyes. There, boiling twenty feet up into the air was a gushing water fountain from under his drill rig. Iverson and Mary were dancing in a circle like a maypole ring, shouting and hooting at the sky.

Excited, he dismounted and hurried over to share the new rain.

“This is wonderful. Will it quit?” he asked, afraid if they left it open it might soon run out.

Wet faced, the big burly Iverson hugged him and shouted. “Not for years. I can cap it in a few minutes.”

“Need some help?”

“You can help. Ain’t this a real Christmas present?”

“By golly, it sure is.”

They finally, using pipe wrenches almost as tall as Mark, got the shut off installed and the well capped.

“What next?” Mark asked.

“We clear land, put up fences and get the ground broke for cotton and Mexican June Corn and sorghum. You ever made sorghum?”

“Sure, I know how to.” Been years but he didn’t figure that he’d forgotten how.

“Merry Christmas, Mark.”

“Sure is. Well let’s celebrate, I brung the tree.”

She clasped his arm tightly as they went to the house. “You’re a real Saint Nicolas.”

“Aw, Hans at the store would make a better one, he speaks the lingo.”

Iverson shook the dust out of the evergreen, and they made a board stand before they took it inside. She was busy popping corn, and soon, the three of them were stringing it with a needle and thread.

She cried over the blue material, holding it to her cheek to feel the weave and then waltzing around with it in the small square she knew in the kitchen part of the small adobe.

They began to spend more and more nights with Mark reciting stories like crossing the Canadian with two thousand steers in ’72 on the way to Abilene. And half the cowboys couldn’t swim.

“Why couldn’t they swim?” she asked.

“’Cause they wasn’t a tank deep enough in the country they came from to learn how,” Mark said. “Thank the Lord, I was raised in Arkansas, ‘cause I learned to swim.”

His stories began to appear in big city newspapers under the author’s name, Willy Make-it, and the checks grew larger. By the second cotton crop of forty acres, Iverson’s farm had almost two hundred acres in cultivation and two more artesian wells. Mark was

the agriculture advisor for the operation and oversaw the help ‘cause he spoke their lingo.

He still wore his cowboy gear, but his dress became a bit more spiffy. The handmade boots came from Kansas and a Mexican lady in Tucson made his pin striped shirt, complaining the material he sent her was for pillow coverings. His Sunday special Boss of the Plains hat hung on a rack of Longhorns.

A young New York reporter came by one day and asked a million questions. Who was Willy Make-it? Was he real, and had all those thing actually happened?

Mark made a sour face, “You calling my best friend a liar?”

The reporter smiled and swallowed hard. “No, sir, but he must have done a million things back then.”

“Son, there was a million things needed done out here in them days.”

After the interview ended, Mark watched the boy get on his bicycle and pedal off. He shook his head. “Now ain’t that a sorry excuse for a horse.”

“He gone?” Mary asked from the doorway.

“Yeah, rode off on his dang bicycle.”

“I figured it was about time for your daily piece of fruit cake, Mark.”

“Been a long time since that Christmas. Never figured it would end up like this. You and Iverson have sure treated me nice.”

“Why, it was your stories that fed us until the farm got cleared and planted. And they still bring us a hefty amount each month.”

Mark blushed and scuffed the ground with his boot. She was right. And it had all happened on a Christmas Eve.

POETRY

BY SADDLEBAG DISPATCHES

POET LAUREATE

BY SADDLEBAG DISPATCHES POET LAUREATE

MARLEEN BUSSMA DUSTY DAYS RODEO MARLEEN BUSSMA DUSTY DAYS

SADDLEBAG POETRY

The bull’s head slams into the rails that seem to scream in pain.

The stock pen settles, gives up any reason to complain.

His hoof digs deep, then hurls a hunk of rodeo real estate.

Clear snot leaks from his nose while frightful eyes are filled with hate.

His beller joins the chorus of the rough stock in the pen.

Rank critters bide their time until they go against the men.

Doug scrutinizes fury as he tours the holding grounds.

He makes a mental note and then continues with his rounds.

Doug studies all the livestock, knows each rider’s record stats.

He gladly shares his info if a rider stops and chats.

He’ll tell just how a horse turns out emergin’ from the chute, how high they buck or sunfish, and pull extra rein to boot.

That smolderin’ volcano that was smackin’ rails of steel might have a thought to gore you when you hit the dirt and feel his hot, damp lava breath explodin’ in your personal space.

The clowns are there to save you, but this tip helps with the chase.

The gates have finally opened, and the crowd is fillin’ seats.

Doug makes his way to saddle up his quarter horse who greets him with a nicker, says he’s ready for another show.

As rodeo announcer, Doug has turned into a pro.

His mother may have worried that he’d be a cowboy bum, but fate had other plans and dropped a beauty of a crumb. He’d signed up for bull ridin’ in a small-town rodeo.

Results were a disaster and a stockman told him so.

He tells Doug, “Go upstairs and start announcin’ in the booth.”

Doug says, “I’m no announcer!” Stockman says, “Well, here’s the truth. You’re no bull rider either. Call the action in the ring.”

Years later, Doug has honed his craft and makes that ol’ mic sing. He’s polished smooth as river rock describin’ what you see.

“A ton of thrustin’ thunder,” is a horse’s buckin’ spree.

Doug gives the crowd a ride on energy that’s flowin’ high. Then takes them back into the barn as if the evenin’s nigh. He educates the crowd on each contestant’s claim to fame.

Spectators feel like family as they hear about each name. The riders all have paid their dues while workin’ hard to win.

Doug thanks them for the time and effort that they’ve all put in. His mind is sharp as spurs he wears, with wit to fill corrals.

A voice of velvet baritone can rival mission bells.

Doug’s earned the sweat that stains his hat. He wears it like a brand. He sits tall in the saddle with a mic gripped in his hand.

AWIDE-SHOULDERED FIGURE in dirty buckskins, Rose Barton, locally known as “Red” because of her long, crimson locks, leaned against the bar in the Crystal Palace Saloon and licked the final drops from an upturned whiskey glass. Orphaned as a child and raised by her muleskinner uncle, she worked like a man, fought like a man, and drank like a man. But tonight, she was a woman. A woman in need of a man.

She set her sights on the piano player, Pete, who had ignored her advances for the past two weeks. She thought he was a handsome devil with his crow-black hair and a waxed handlebar mustache riding atop a gap-toothed grin.

Red ordered another whiskey and watched Pete jiggle on his stool, pounding out a lively version of “Camptown Races.” He turned and smiled toward the bar.

“I think he needs a kiss,” she slurred, the words barely intelligible. She threw back the whiskey, slammed her empty glass on the bar, and staggered

toward the piano. Two steps from the apple of her eye, she stumbled and fell on top of him.

Pete hit the floor with a resounding His bowler hat rolled toward the swinging doors. The card games stopped. The bartender froze, bottle in hand. Wide-eyed dance-hall girls stared, mouth agape at the two bodies thrashing on the floor. Grunts, groans, and cuss words shot from the piano player as he struggled to free himself from his leather-clad attacker.

“Will… Get this crazy bitch off of me!” Red had him pinned to the floor and was doing her best to plant her whiskey-stained lips firmly on top of his. Willie, Pete’s black musical companion, leaned his banjo against the wall, stretched both arms in the air, and yawned.

“Now, Miss Red, ya’ll needs to get off po’ old Pete. He don’t seem to be in no mood for romance.”

By the time Willie got to his feet, the bartender had ambled over. They each grabbed Red by an arm and helped her to her feet up.

Winner of the 2022 Ozark Creative Writers Dusty Richards Memorial Oxbow Prize

“My God, woman, have you no decency?” Pete wiped at his mouth.

“Aw, come on Petey,” she slurred. “A little lovin’ ain’t gonna hurt ya. Wouldn’t you like to roll in the hay with a real woman?”

“No, thank you. You can wallow in your livery stall if you want. I’ve got a hotel bed to sleep in.”

“Okay.” She grinned and staggered closer. “We can use your room—if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t want. Not with you. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. What does it take to get that through your thick head?”

Shoulders slumped, a lone tear trickled down Red’s cheek.

Willie broke the silence with a whisper, “Mista Pete, we needs to get back to playin’. The girls are wantin’ to dance.”

Pete huffed, retrieved his hat, and sank onto the piano stool without another look at Red.

RED AWOKE AND SQUINTED. From the sunlight peeking between planks of the stable wall, she judged it to be around ten o’clock. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and brushed the straw from her long red hair.

Rolling onto all fours, pain threatened to disable one shoulder and a hip, but those were minor in comparison to the throbbing in her temples.

Then the pieces started to come back. Falling. Pete’s hateful words. People laughing at her. The bartender telling her to go home and sleep it off.

Struggling to her feet, she gathered her meager belongings. It was a good thing she’d signed with the stage line for the trip to Bisbee. Getting out of town for a few days would do her good and give the regulars at the saloon a chance to find something else to talk about before she returned.

The stage didn’t leave till noon, which left her about an hour to find some coffee and grub before the long, rough ride to Bisbee. After breakfast, she found the driver, helped harness the team, load the mailbags and a strongbox onto the coach.

By a quarter to twelve, a half-dozen passengers had assembled in front of the stage depot.

She recognized two of them right away.

Willie stepped forward. “Mornin’, Miss Red. You goin’ to Bisbee, too?”

She rolled a chaw of tobacco from one side of her mouth to the other and spat a brown stream in Pete’s direction. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one anxious to leave town.

“Yeah, reckon I am. They needed someone to ride shotgun, so I signed on. Didn’t know the damn piano player would be goin’, too. You’ll have to ride on top,” she told Willie. “Negroes ain’t allowed inside the coach.”

“No problem, Miss Red. The view’s better from up there, anyway.”

“All aboard,” the driver called.

Four other passengers skirted around Pete. Two were middle-aged women. One short and chubby, the other tall and long-faced. A gentleman in a top hat

helped the ladies inside. From the cut of his cloth, Red judged him to be a gambler. The other man reeked of cow manure, sour whiskey, and urine.

The gambler seated himself next to the ladies. Pete eased into the seat across from them and pressed his body close to the window, staying as far as possible from the rancid cowhand.

A couple of hours into the trip, the road cut through a narrow, rocky pass. The coach had slowed to a crawl in the roughest part of the ravine when someone atop yelled,

The driver whipped the team into a full run. Gunshots echoed down the canyon. Inside, the passengers ricocheted off each other like billiard balls. The rancid cowboy bounced off the slender woman then flew face-first into the other woman’s bosom.

Pete saw a body fall from atop the stage. More gunshots followed. The stage, enveloped in a cloud of dust, rumbled to a halt in a dry creek bed.

The coach hadn’t stopped rocking when a man

yanked open the door and shoved a revolver in the gambler’s face.

“Everybody out,” he ordered. Two men stood behind him, pistols drawn. All three wore bandanas covering their noses and mouths.

Pete got out of the coach with his hands held high. Over his left shoulder, he spotted another member of the gang, still mounted, holding the harness lines in one hand, and pointing a gun at the driver with the other. The seat next to the driver was empty. Red, nowhere to be seen.

One of the bandits scrambled atop the coach and threw down the mailbags, luggage, and strongbox.

“Be careful wit dat one,” Willie begged. “Please! It’s my banjo.”

The big man who appeared to be in charge arched an eyebrow. “So, you’re a traveling minstrel, eh, boy?”

“Yas, sir, me and Mista Pete. He plays de piano. We’re on our way to California.”

The robber turned and studied the passengers, his eyes coming to rest on Pete.

“You ever played a wedding, ‘Mista’ Pete?”

Pete nodded. “Yep. Quite a few back east.”

“Good. Then you won’t mind playing one in Mexico.” He turned to the man holding the team. “Diego, unhitch a couple of those horses. We’re taking these two with us.”

Downstream from the crossing, she found a puddle, no larger than a man’s hat and two inches deep. It tasted stagnant. But it was wet, and that was all that mattered.

An acacia anchored the sandy bank above the puddle. Stretching out beneath the tree, she closed her eyes. Moments later the howl of a coyote snapped them back open. It was close. Real close. The hair stood up on the back of her neck, knuckles white around the handle of her revolver.

RED OPENED HER EYES. She hurt all over. Wiping her fingers along the side of her head, she felt something wet. Blood. It felt like a bullet had grazed her temple. Daggers of pain stabbed with each movement. The world was spinning. She struggled to her feet and grabbed a mesquite bush to steady herself. It was coming back now. The The gunshots. Then darkness. There was no sign of the coach or the robbers. She’d traveled this route enough times to know there was a small creek not far from where they’d been ambushed. Hopefully, there’d be water.

If she was lucky, they’d send someone back to look for her. Or perhaps there’d be another stage tomorrow. Either way, it was getting dark and too far to walk at night, especially the way her knee was hurting.

THE BANDIDOS RODE AT a leisurely pace. By the time the sheriff was notified, they would be well across the border. The trail snaked through scrub brush and mesquite before ending at a hacienda overlooking a valley.

Along the way, Pete learned the leader of the gang went by Big Sam. From their conversations, he gathered they worked for Francisco Javier López, owner of the

López had a daughter, Maria, who was engaged to Pablo Ortiz, the son of the governor of Sonora.

“Senor López,” Big Sam announced upon their arrival. “I brought you some musicians to play for Senorita Maria’s wedding.”

López frowned. “They don’t look like musicians. I don’t see a fiddle or guitar.” He looked Pete and Willie up and down. “Can you play ‘La Marcha?’”

“Do you have a piano or organ?” Pete asked. “If you’ve got the sheet music, I can play anything.”

“What about him?” López nodded toward Willie.

“He’s the best banjo player west of the Mississippi.” Pete grinned.

López scrunched his eyebrows, shook his head, and turned to Sam. “I ask for musicians, and you bring me a runt in a bowler hat and a negro who plays banjo? I’ll be the laughingstock of Sonora.”

Big Sam swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Senor López. I thought—”

“Don’t think. Now, go find some mariacheros who play real music.”

“What do you want me to do with these two?”

“Leave them with me. They can serve food at the

wedding. Then afterwards...” he grinned at Sam. “You can dispose of them.”

“GIT!” RED THREW A rock in the direction of the coyote howl. There was no response. She tightened the buckskin jacket around her neck and kept her fingers curled around the revolver. The crickets and frogs resumed their nightly lullabies.

She awoke to the clip-clop of hoofbeats on the rocky creek bed. Two men wearing badges helped her on a pack mule and took her to a doctor in Bisbee. He wrapped a bandage around her forehead.

“If that bullet had been a half-inch to the right, you’d be dead.”

“It’s a good thing I’m as thick-headed as some people think.” She grabbed her hat and headed for the door. “I hate to stitch and run, Doc, but I’ve got to catch the sheriff before the posse leaves. I’m going with ’em.”

She found Sheriff Hatch in the saloon, instructing the eight men who’d agreed to go after the

“From the driver’s description, we believe it was Big Sam’s gang who robbed the stage.

“They work for Francisco Javier López, who’s no saint himself. Word has it there’s a big wedding planned at the López hacienda tonight. They’ll have lookouts, and I expect we’ll be outgunned.

“Our best bet is to get close, wait until everyone is drunk, and hope to lure Big Sam and his men out of the

“Leave that part to me,” Red said. “I’ll sneak inside and pretend to be a wedding guest.

“Once I find Pete and Willie, I’ll lead them out. Big Sam will give chase, then I’ll give a signal for you to move in.”

The sheriff raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You? What makes you think you can pass as a wedding guest?”

“Shouldn’t be too hard—but I will need a change of clothes.”

“And if your plan works, what will the signal be?”

She grinned. “A few sticks of dynamite should do the trick.”

“No, can’t say that I have.” He smirked.

“The bandits stole the payroll for the Bisbee Copper Mine, kidnapped two of the passengers, and shot the person riding shotgun.”

She slid from his grasp, took a step back, and lifted the veil to reveal the wound on her forehead.

PREPARING FOOD FOR THE wedding was an allday job. Neither Pete nor Willie understood Spanish, and the servants didn’t speak English. Using hand signals, they were able to communicate that Willie was to pluck chickens, while Pete was taught to roll

By mid-afternoon, guests started arriving. Big Sam commandeered four mariachi musicians and a priest from a nearby village.

The wedding was held on a covered patio overlooking the valley. Immediately after the ceremony, the servants began setting up tables for the feast and serving tequila, rum, and sangria.

A couple of hours into the party, a shapely woman wearing an emerald-green dress trimmed in lace grabbed Pete by the arm. Her face was partially covered by a veil and a wedding fan shielded all but her eyes. She leaned close. Her carrot-colored hair cascaded down her shoulders.

“Pete, it’s me,” she whispered. “Hand me a drink. Don’t say anything, just listen good. I’m here to get you and Willie. The sheriff and posse are waiting down the hill. I’ve got three horses tied to a mesquite behind the kitchen portico. Get Willie and meet me there in five minutes.” Pete handed her a drink and nodded.

Red wedged her way through the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of Big Sam. He saw her first.

“Well, hello, little lady,” he said, tipping his hat. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Sam Driscoll.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mister Driscoll.” She curtsied and stuck out her hand. “I’m Rose Barton.”

He clasped her fingers in his giant paw and gently kissed the back of her hand. “What a fitting name. You’re as pretty as a rose. May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Barton?”

“Yes, but I’m not very graceful on the dance floor.”

He grinned. “Neither am I.”

The band struck up a waltz. A few steps into the dance she asked, “Did you hear about the stage robbery north of Bisbee the other day?”

“I was the one who got shot. And I’m here to recover the payroll and the two passengers.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. He lunged to grab her but was greeted with a knee to the groin. The music stopped and everyone turned see the commotion.

“Stop that woman!” Sam moaned, as she fled through the crowd.

Pete found Willie in the kitchen.

“I need to go water a tree. How ’bout you?” He nodded toward the back door. Willie followed him around the corner of the building.

“Red’s inside,” Pete whispered. “She’s got three horses tied to a mesquite down there.”

He pointed to a low area not far from the kitchen porch. “We’re to meet her there in a couple of minutes.”

“Praise be!” Willie’s white teeth glowed in the faint moonlight.

They heard shouting from the veranda, followed by gunshots. Red came running toward them, her skirt gathered in both hands. “Mount up! We gotta get out of here—now!”

She heard cursing and glanced over her shoulder. Big Sam was pointing a revolver in her direction. Flame leapt from the barrel. Swinging into the saddle, she lit a stick of dynamite and heaved it toward Sam.

“Dynamite!” the big man yelled, ducking for cover. The explosion slowed the pursuers but didn’t stop a barrage of bullets from ripping through the underbrush.

Riding hard, they followed the road to the bottom of the hill. Sheriff Hatch and the posse were waiting at a narrow pass between two rock ledges.

“We heard the signal,” Hatch said. “Where’s Sam?”

“He’ll be here any minute.”

“Sheriff, set your men up on this side of the pass,” she said. “When Sam’s gang comes through, I’ll create a rockslide behind them so they can’t escape. Willie, you and Pete follow the sheriff.”

She dismounted, handed her reins to Willie, and ran to a cleft in the rocks.

Over his shoulder, Pete could hear thundering hoofbeats growing ever louder and saw an ominous cloud of dust rising in the moonlight and slithering toward them like an angry rattlesnake.

Hatch positioned three men on each flank. He and two others blocked the middle of the road.

Sam and his gang had just cleared the pass when the ground shook with a powerful explosion. When they slowed to look back at the bombardment of rocks hailing down behind them the posse moved in. Big Sam gave up without a fight.

Pete rushed to the rockslide. “Red, where are you?”

No answer. Long minutes passed. A figure staggered toward him in the dusty haze, her hands filled with lace and satin. Pete jumped from his horse and squeezed Red in a bear hug.

“What’s gotten into you?” She smiled. “Is it this fancy dress? Would you take me to your room if I was wearing this?”

“Nah.” He shook his head slowly.

Her smile faded.

Taking her hand, he gazed deeply into her eyes. “I’d rather go to the livery stable and roll in the hay with a real woman.”

RUSSELL GAYER

aFrom an early age, Russell fed his brain a steady diet of Rocky & Bullwinkle, Looney Tunes, and that thrilling Test Pattern that appeared when television stations logged off the air. He gorged on the humor of and others without realizing the mental-health hazards. In those days, people like Jonathan Winters came without warning labels.

One day Russell opened the back of Field&Stream magazine and read an article by Patrick McManus. It seems that McManus suffered from a rare mental disorder that enabled him to turn mundane, everyday occurrences into hilarious misadventures. Russell had an epiphany right then and there, without even knowing what one was.

An award-winning author and speaker, Russell has published two books, ThePerilsofHeavyThinking and OneIdiotShortofaVillage. He also enjoys writing non-fiction articles on local history. Visit Russell’s website at www.russellgayer.com.

RUSSELL GAYER is a fourth generation Ozark native, residing on the family homestead near Goshen, Arkansas.