story (4)

A Tail of Two Cats ~ By John Bolton

Our sons have long since grown up and moved away. Our two black cats are like children to us now. I think their stories are worth telling.

Elvis came to us first. Linda and I were biking the Raccoon River Trail on a late summer morning. About ten miles out we crossed a gravel road. The trail on the far side had a shady line of trees. Just off the trail were two tiny kittens. One was black and the other was black and white. They looked to be only six weeks old. Being animal lovers, we stopped to hold and pet the babies. They were starved for attention and maybe just plain starving.

There was no house or farmstead in sight and we were about four miles from the nearest town. We had a cat at home and did not need another. Three would definitely be too many. I persuaded Linda to complete our ride. If the kittens were there when we came back, we would find a way to help.

We pedaled off toward the town of Redfield. The kittens raced after us. The tiny black one ran like he was running for his life. I feel hard hearted about it now, but we completed our ride. And of course those little cats stayed on our minds.

We came back and lo and behold, there was a mother cat and now three babies. Momma cat was sweet, petite, solid black and affectionate. Linda thought there might be more kittens and she started calling for them. We soon had five babies of assorted colors. The little black one was the runt of the litter and the most outgoing.

I raced back to the town where we’d parked our truck. By gravel roads, I found my way to Linda and the brood of cats. In the weeds off the bike trail, Linda had found a Bud Light beer box with an old towel inside. Someone had abandoned that momma cat and her litter, literally in the middle of nowhere.

Did you ever make a sixty mile trip in the cab of a small pickup with two humans, a momma cat and five kittens? It was entertaining. We bought a sack of kitten chow along the way home. Those cats were going crazy for it before the bag was open.

We already had a cat, Katie, an older gray female, set in her ways, vocal and crabby. We couldn’t have more cats. We kept the cat family in the garage for a couple of days. It was fun to let them out to play and a circus to re-capture them. We there was undigested corn in momma cat’s poop. What a good mother cat she was to eat field corn to stay alive and feed her babies.

Our vet, Michelle, and vet tech, Susie, are good, people. They found a farm home for the whole litter. It was a relief to find them a home. On the other hand, we knew that farm cats tend to have short lives
And I kept regretting giving up that lively black runt of the litter. I had named him Elvis. He had a lot of personality.  Linda relented to my whining and we asked if we could have him back.  He was soon ours. Or we were soon his.

Our Katie cat was greatly affronted and offended by the new ball of black fur in her domain. How could we bring such a creature into her house? She bullied him while he was small, but soon they were friends. That runt grew into a fifteen pound (neutered) tom. That is a pretty big cat. He in turn bullied Katie. And she would scream when he did. In spite of her angry ‘I’m being murdered’ screams ~ Katie liked it fine.

A few years later Katie cat was dying of old age and kidney failure. She’d had violent seizures. We called Michelle, the vet, to euthanize her. She came to our house to do the merciful deed. Linda held Katie as the life slipped out of her.

Elvis ruled the roost by himself for a few years until Rockie came along.

The winter of 2009 and 2010 was the harshest in my memory. We had the double whammy of severe cold and deep snow. Linda and I worked at our small town hospital. Early on a dark January morning, with the temperature at eighteen below zero, an outpatient came in and told Linda there was a little cat outside and that she was just about frozen. Not much later, a second outpatient repeated the story. Linda went outside and picked up a filthy, starving and nearly frozen little cat. Her tail was broken and covered with frost. Linda cuddled her in blankets. Weak as she was, the little cat purred.

It was off to the veterinary clinic for that little cat. She was so frozen, ill and malnourished that she stayed there for nearly a month. IVs and nutrition helped her regain her strength. She arrived at the vet weighing three pounds. A month later, she was six pounds. And that was after her tail was removed. There was no saving that broken, frozen tail.

It was an unexpected surprise to learn the little cat’s story. Keith was a college student working part time in maintenance at the hospital. I sat with him one morning at coffee break and mentioned the little cat we found. Keith asked, “Is she solid black and about so big?”

We pieced the story together. Keith lived on a farm about fifteen miles away. The farm cats would climb up under the hoods of the cars and trucks to get warm. One recent day Keith had been driving away from the farm and something caught his eye in the rear view mirror. It was the little black cat tumbling in the snow after falling from her perch near the truck motor. When Keith came home, there was the little cat in the farm yard and apparently unharmed.

I asked Kieth if she had a name. I am hard of hearing and I thought Kieth said, ‘Rockie’. That seemed like a fine name for her. She’d
had a rocky start in life. Days later, I would learn that I had misheard. Keith had called her Lucky. But Rockie fit and Rockie it would stay.

Rockie did not learn her lesson after falling out of the truck engine compartment the first time. We think she got under that truck hood again and rode fifteen miles to Harlan and the hospital parking lot - probably getting her tail broken by the fan or fan belts in the process. Like Elvis had run for his life, Rockie stowed away and rode to town for hers. We think she was out in sub zero temps for three days without food or water.

Keith was content to let us keep Rockie. And though it went unspoken, he was content to let us keep her vet bills. By the time she was strong enough to come home, Rockie had bewitched the vet clinic staff. They offered to keep her.

Linda and I – especially Linda, had visited her numerous times. We wanted that cat. We took her home.

If this was fiction, Rockie would be the best cat ever. She isn’t even close. Elvis is the best cat ever. He is our gentle and loving and talkative giant. Rockie is naughty, quirky, independent - and fun.

When we took Rockie back to the vet for her first checkup, we showed Michelle what we thought was a bone chip beneath the skin on her rump and above her thumb sized stub of tail. Michele felt it and rolled in her fingers. She said, “That’s a BB.”

That BB is still there and oddly fascinating to feel. We used to joke about getting Rockie a prosthetic tail. But that stiff little stub does not bother her a bit. It seems to constantly stand up and twitch.

We are Rockie’s staff and she is stand-offish. Elvis is now an old man cat at about fifteen years old. He moves like an old man cat. Rockie will be four this autumn of 2013. She is fast and a champion jumper. She loves and mothers poor Elvis, who mostly tolerates her. Rockie has a high weak and squeaky voice. She does not meow. She does not
yowl. She says, “Eee, eee, eee.”

When company comes, Rockie hides and is not seen until she is certain they have they are gone.

Linda sits in the couch recliner in the evening and Rockie lies on her lap. Rockie regards me as the big bad wolf. She does not hide from me, but she stays two human steps away and will bolt if I intrude closer. She is arrogantly aware that she is smart and fast and I am slow and stupid.

Rockie occasionally allows me to pet her in her designated petting area. This requires me to lie on the floor and pet her beneath a wooden bench. She chooses the petting times and they are not frequent. As I pet her, she watches me warily with her green owl eyes. She is a scaredy cat.

Rockie’s full name is ever changing. It is currently Rockie, BB-butt, monkey-paws, coyote-brain. She earns those names. She is playful cat and has many cat toys. When she has not placed her toys on our bed or scattered them around the house, they are kept under the same wood bench that serves as the designated petting area.

***

We will lose our beloved Elvis at some not too distant point. It’s going to be terrible. He is the best cat ever. Rockie is a healthy little beast. Her bowed hind legs may be a sign that she was malnourished as a kitten. I hope that she will mellow with time and be a more loving cat with me.

Linda says there will be no more cats after these two. I’ve heard that
story before.

Read more…

Big Bottom Girls by John Bolton

November, 1933
Goodland County, Oklahoma

Maggie Jinks, Susie Slater and Thelma Trueax were the big bottom girls. Big Bottom School which was officially designated but seldom called Goodland County School #9. It was a wood framed one room school house with nineteen students ranging from first to eighth grade. There were no seventh graders in 33’ and the BB girls, as the only eighth graders, ruled the roost. Miss Potter, their teacher. She considered them a hoot and a handful.

The BB girls were racially diverse before anyone heard that term. Susie was white, Maggie was colored and Thelma was part Indian. The terms ‘black’ and ‘native American’ were not in use. If someone felt a need to be more precise, Thelma was half Choctaw with a white father.

The girls had been friends since first grade. Thelma and Maggie lived on Big Bottom. Thelma’s family had their own forty acre farm. Maggie’s family had a house and five acres and share cropped more land. Susie lived up over the hills in Rabbit Hollow. Her dad had a few hogs, a few farmable acres and lots of timber. He was a known bootlegger and suspected still operator.

Maggie, the colored girl, was already five foot seven. Thelma, the part Indian girl was five four and feisty Susie, the white girl and bootlegger’s daughter was the shorty at five two. All three girls were slim. Maggie was big boned and loose jointed. They all had dark hair. Susie and Thelma wore their hair short and similar to the pilot, Amelia Earhart. Maggie wore hers natural and like Orphan Annie from the funny papers. None of the girls were physically big bottomed, but they joked that Maggie came closest. They were all pretty enough, if you can be pretty wearing overalls to school. They were good country girls.

Big Bottom lays five miles east of Clayton on the eastern bank of Mosquito creek. Little bottom is on the west, or town side. In Oklahoma, creek is pronounced crick and rhymes with stick and Mosquito was generally shortened to ‘Skeeter’.

Big bottom was and still is bottom land and prime cotton land. Unless the creek flooded. Or unless it was the drought years of the early 30s. Later, in the late thirties, FDR’s New Deal CCC crews would come with massive man power to straighten the creek. That successfully reduced flooding while turning mostly clear waters to muddy brown. But in 33’, ‘Skeeter Crick’ was a crooked, meandering water way and large for a creek – as big as some small rivers.

Big bottom ended abruptly and merged into steep, tall hills. The hilltops formed a rugged and timbered ridge. The ridge plummeted again on the far side and formed the steep sided oval known as Rabbit Hollow.

The BB girls were good students with a small exception. Thelma had a terrible time comprehending fractions. In every other way, they were country school scholars with a fine, caring and young teacher in Miss Potter, who was in her third year teaching.

As was customary in one room schools, the older kids helped teach the younger kids. The BB girls thrived in that role. Woe be it to someone picking on the younger kids. The BB girl’s policy was to kick ass first and take names later.

It was their compassion for the younger kids that lead the BB girls to stray from the straight and narrow path.

About a third of the nineteen students came to school carrying sparse lunches of lard spread on cornbread. The rest were not eating much better. Some days kids would claim to have forgotten their lunches.

Miss Potter, the teacher, did what she could. She designated Monday as ‘spud day’. She brought each kid a baked potato and fresh churned butter. It was a special day for a lot of the kids and Monday attendance improved. When it got cold enough to use the coal stove, she baked the potatoes right there at school on the coal stove. Miss Potter would have liked to do more, but the kids and families seemed too proud to accept help.

As it got cold, fur trapping season began. The BB girls rose up early every morning and ran a trap and snare line, mostly along the creek. They brought in muskrats, coons and possums and once a fat weasel and once a skunk.

Susie, who’d had polio at age three, had a left foot that turned left at a forty five degree angle. She still managed a full share of the work.

Fur prices were poor that year, but every critter excepting the skunk was skinned for its fur and meat. Most of the meat went to the home cooking pots, but some was saved for Fridays when the girls took meat to school. Kids brought vegetables to throw in the pot and the whole school bragged on their Big Bottom stew. With spuds on Monday and stew on Friday, BB school had the best attendance in the county.

November was hog butchering time and all three BB girls’ families killed a hog and butchered. The girls knew a bit about live stock, were somewhat skilled in the butchering, smoking and rendering process and were definitely not strangers to hard work.

But not everyone at BB school had hog.

Just north of the Big Bottom lived a man known to the kids as Crabapple Hatcher. Crabapple had a herd of hogs and an orchard too. He was well known for being hard on kids who just wanted to swipe an apple or two. This made him nearly the ideal to man to steal a hog from.

All of Thanksgiving week the three BBs acquired the necessities for processing a hog. On the Saturday after Thanksgiving the girls got permission to stay the night at their club house in the hills of Rabbit Hollow. Cold as it was getting, it would be the last chance of the year to stay there. And it would be a fine night to steal and butcher a hog.

****

Deputy Delroy Wright was working the day shift on Monday morning. Web Hatcher came to see the sheriff but had to settle for Del. Hatcher had a forty acre farm and orchard north of Rabbit Hollow. Behind his back, people called him Crabapple Hatcher and he was in fact, an old crab.

Web and Del knew each other a little. When Del was a ninth grader, old Mr. Hatcher saw Del and a friend helping themselves to his apples. The boys ran and got away, but Hatcher recognized one boy as being the sheriff’s kid. Hatcher did not like Sheriff Wright because he thought Wright was too easy on kids he’d caught stealing. He acted like he wanted to prosecute, but what he really wanted and got was a cash payment. Del had been grounded for two weeks over the deal and it took him over a month to pay back what Hatcher took from his dad.

Hatcher reported, “I had a nice hog stole last night or maybe Saturday night. I know people need food, but it ain’t up to me to feed em’.”

Out at the farm, Hatcher showed Del shoe prints and hog prints outside a seldom used gate to the hog lot. It was clear that two or more people took the hog. The prints were small for a man and their first guess was young boys. Del studied them and said, “Looks like one’s got a left foot that turns way out.”

The tracks led out the gate to the dirt road and angled south toward Rabbit Hollow and Big Bottom. Del said, “Ummm. Me track like Injun.”

The dirt road didn’t get much traffic but had enough to hide most tracks. Del walked about two hundred yards. He found a few hog tracks in the right side road ditch and again the shoe print with the outturned foot. He figured two or three boys were driving the hog up the weedy ditch trying to avoid leaving tracks.

The intermittently spotted tracks led up into the hills and down into Rabbit Hollow and onto a foot path into the timber. Not visible from the road was a shed roofed, tar paper shack, maybe eight feet square. Painted in white on the black tar papered door was, ‘Big Bottom Girls’. Hanging from a branch of a cottonwood was a rope and pulley stout enough to lift a hog. Nearby was a fire pit.

Del went back to town and talked with his dad, the sheriff. The sheriff knew right away who might live out there and have a foot like Del described. He didn’t know the girl’s name, but knew there was a Slater out there who’d been rumored to sell bootleg whiskey and that Slater had a daughter with a bit of a gimp foot.

Del drove up to Big Bottom School a little before noon. He got out and leaned against the car door. Pretty soon the kids came out for recess and Del looked for a girl with an outturned foot. It didn’t take long to spot her.

All the kids stared at the sheriff’s car and a lot of the older ones seemed distressed. They broke off into smaller groups, some going to a tire swing and some near the outhouse.

The white girl with the outturned foot and two other girls of about her same age went to the far corner of the schoolyard. One was a colored girl and the other looked Indian. Their body language was rigid and upset. They avoided looking at the sheriff’s car and looked to be arguing.

The teacher come out and Del could see she was assessing the situation. She was pretty and Del realized it was Debbie Potter, who had been two grades behind him in school. He motioned her to him and they got into the car. Debbie immediately got teary eyed, covered her face and started to sob.

Del felt like crying too. He told her, “Gees Debbie, you make a poor accessory to crime. Oh gees. I hope you aren’t in on this. Can you tell me about a stolen hog?”

“I don’t want to. (Sob) I don’t know anything about anything (sob) stolen. (Sob) But every one of the kid’s family’s got a bundle of pork meat given to them yesterday. And (sob) we had pork roast and potatoes for lunch. It was delicious.”

As Debbie was talking, Del glanced back and forth from the three biggest girls. The white girl tried to shove the other two back and then she started toward the car.

Before Miss Potter could say anything more the Big Bottom Girls came up the car. The Slater girl tried to push the other two away, but they were not going to go. Del rolled down his window and the white girl told him. “I done it. Just me. I stole Crabapple’s pig.”

It didn’t work. The other girls admitted their crime too.

****

It was one of the times Del kind of hated being a deputy. It could have gone better if Web Hatcher would have dropped the charges and let the girls work off their debt. But he insisted on charges and restitution.

Justice was swift and merciful. The county magistrate saw the girls that same day. Miss Potter was there speaking up for them. They were to make restitution and do community service. They were on probation for a year. If there was no further trouble, they could ask the magistrate to have their records cleared.

Del and Miss Potter had a date that Friday night. The following Friday there was a pot luck fund raiser at the school and Del played and sang.

Word got around in Goodland County. Del made sure it did. Poor as times were, lots of folks attended. Enough money was raised to pay Web Hatcher for his hog and there were enough canned goods to make excellent Big Bottom Stews every Friday, all winter long. And glory be, Miss Potter got up and sang ‘Down By The Riverside’ and the Big Bottom Girls, now the Big Bottom trio, sang ‘Frankie & Albert’

Read more…

Professor Pete ~ A Goodland County Story
By John Bolton

Clayton, Oklahoma 1934

Professor Pete and Stanley Peters rode the northbound into Goodland County on a gorgeous October afternoon. The steam whistle blew two shorts and long as the train slowed for the town of Clayton. The boys had no idea or immediate concern for where they were. They were both very drunk.

They were dangling their legs from an empty Morton Salt boxcar and Stan stood up to pee. The engineer hit the brakes, the box car lurched and Stan was hurled off the train. He landed on his right side and rolled. The roll came to an end and he started to laugh.

The professor witnessed Stan’s rise and fall. With a subdued, look on his round Swedish face he called out, “For every action there is a reaction.”

Professor Pete tossed down Stan’s gunny sack and his own ancient carpet bag. With their nearly empty hooch bottle in hand he scooted off the slow moving train. He landed badly, screamed in pain and collapsed to the ground. Flat on his back, he held up the bottle like a trophy and called back to Stan, “Didn’t break!”

Stan picked himself up, buttoned his trousers and walked up to Pete. He held out his hand, received the bottle, tipped it up, drained it and then smashed it on the track. “Now it did.”

Pete tried to get up and said, “Oof da, my durned ankle hurts.”

Pete put his arm over Stan’s shoulders and with his right ankle elevated, they hobbled off in search of refreshments.

                                                                                ****

Del Wright was the day deputy and took the call about two very drunk white men stumbling around the colored section picking up discarded cigarette and cigar butts. Del found them almost immediately. They were sitting on the front stoop of a small home. The scrawny one, Stan, was smoking and Professor Pete, a big, good looking man with whitish blonde hair was clumsily rolling a cigarette.

Del parked and ambled up to them. Professor Pete greeted him, “Good afternoon, ossifer. Care for a smoke?”

Del looked them over and saw a small pile of cigarette and cigar butts between them. He said, “No thanks. Are you fellers pickin’ up butts and rolling the tobacco into new smokes?”

Pete nodded sagely, belched and said, “Oof da. Yes ossifer. Waste not want not.”

“You been drinking?” Del asked.

Before Pete, the duo’s apparent spokesman could reply, Stan lurched to his feet, stepped off the porch and puked wretchedly and profusely into the flower bed.

Del said, “That is downright rude. I like petunias.”

Professor Pete said, “Oof da. Those are pansies, not petunias. And I apologize for my indisposed friend. We were drinking, but we’re done with that now. I’m sorry for any inconvenience.”

Del said, “Well, you’re drunk as skunks. I can put you in jail or you can mosey down the tracks and save the county the expense. And what the hell is oof da?”

Pete used the porch rail to get up gingerly and said, “Thank you, ossifer. We shall mosey. Oh, oof da is an expression up in Minnesota where I come from. It’s like ‘oh my’, or ‘good gracious’ or ‘oh shit’.”

Del said, “Oof da. You two best mosey. We don’t like people puking in the pansies.”

Stan and Pete hobbled a few steps with Pete using Stan as crutch. They both toppled to the dirt street. Pete lay on his back and told Del. “Ossifer, I fear I’ve injured my limb. Crippled my hind foot. Turned my ankle. I am in dire straights, sir and we are in fact, inebriated. Drunk. Besotted. Three sheets to the wind… Maybe four.”

Del squatted down and probed Pete’s ankle. He said, “Shit. I mean oofda. You got that front leg bone poking where it shouldn’t be poking. Above your ankle. Okay then. Pete’s goin’ to the doc. What’s the plan, Stan? You want to wait on the edge of town for Pete?”

“I don’t got no plan.” Never did.”

Pete said, “Stan needs to get on home to Topeka. His old gran is ill. It’s time we take divergent paths, my friend. Good luck to you, my boon companion.”

“Well gents,” said Del. It’s been entertainin’. Professor Pete, if you won’t puke in the car, I will carry you down to the doc’s.”

Del helped Dr. Koster by pulling strong and steady on Pete’s foot while the doc casted the ankle and lower leg. And surprise, surprise, Pete pulled a money clip from his pocket and paid the doc in full and still had a green back or two remaining in the clip.

“Now what Professor?” Del inquired.

Professor Pete sighed and said, “I could use a bath, a bed and a laundry. Is there a clean and inexpensive hotel nearby?”

Del and the doc exchanged knowing looks and Del said, “We have the finest hotel for miles around. At least for ten miles. I own it. I don’t know about clean, but it’s cheap. Can you get up a flight of stairs on those crutches?”

                                                                                      ****

Del went down for breakfast the next day and was surprised to see the professor there with his cast propped up on a chair. He was drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.

Del got a doughnut and pulled up a chair. “How’s the leg, Professor?”

“Oof da. It’s tiresome and throbbing. My first night in a bed in over a week and I could not sleep. I was going to try and catch a train, but I see a job here in the want ads. Deputy, can you direct me to the school?”

“The school?”

“Yes. They advertise for a part time Latin teacher and substitute teacher.”

“Yeah?”

“Chemistry is my specialty, but I can teach Latin. I hold a teaching certificate. I have it with me in fact.”

Del’s eyebrows raised in surprise and he said, “A Latin teaching hobo?”

“At your service.”

“Professor, I thought you were full of shit, but it turns out you’re full of surprises.”

“Oh deputy, I’m only full of shit when I drink. And I only drink when there is something in the bottle! No, I’m just joshing you. I’m a good teacher. And I’ll go easy on the drink if I get the job.”

There were a lot of good men on the tramp in the dirty thirties. Del had been on the road himself and he usually saw the good in people. But there was something about Pete Peterson that Del didn’t trust.

But Pete got the teaching job and stayed on at the Hotel Delroy though the teaching year. Del figured he’d do something like knock up the first grade teacher and abscond with the pay role.

Pete quit using the professor name. That was a hobo thing.
He was a teacher, but not a professor. Staff and students liked him and he fit in around town and the hotel too. And it seemed like before long everyone in town was saying, ‘Oof da.’

Pete stayed in Clayton for years. He married the algebra teacher, taught school, coached basketball and eventually became school principal. Del kept waiting for something scandalous to happen. But to his continued surprise, it never did.

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The Hubcap Man’s Grave Site (A True story) By John Bolton

The hubcap man lived on a well kept farmstead in the rolling hills of western Iowa. What made his place stand out was the collection of chrome hubcaps wired to the barbwire fence that parallels the road in front of his house. I saw those hubcaps for years but didn’t know who lived there. In my imagination, it was an old guy with a sense of humor and an independence streak.

I finally met the hubcap man. I think it was the summer of 2010. He was younger than I had imagined, maybe mid sixties. He was likeable and did in fact have a sense of humor and an independent streak. And he was terminally ill. I’ve passed his place since that time and the hubcaps are still there and the farm stead is still neat and well kept. I wondered what became of him and supposed he had passed on.

On a nearly perfect fall day in later September of 2012, I was making the drive that would take me past his place. Farmers were in the fields with combines and grain wagons. About half the corn crop was harvested and some farmers were starting to combine the soybeans which had just made their autumn change from golden brown to dirty brown.

I wanted a break from driving and decided to stop at a pioneer cemetery which lays just up the hill from the hubcap man’s place. It was my first time there. I like history and old cemeteries. There were old graves and new. The oldest I saw was from 1850.

The cemetery is on a fairly steep hill and has a small timber on one side. It’s a pretty place with a view of the Boyer River valley. Near the top of the cemetery hill was a three foot tall jagged boulder. Something shiny at its base caught my eye and I walked up to it. At the foot of the boulder sat an unopened can of Bud Light beer and some new golf balls. A magic marker sat on the boulder and the boulder was covered with what I first thought was graffiti.

It wasn’t graffiti. I will call what was written on the boulder ‘tributes’. They said things like, “I love you, dad.” “We miss you.” “The corn crop sucks.”

I had never seen that done. I liked it. Then I looked at the headstone and realized it was the hubcap man. I stood at his grave site and looked toward his old home. I could clearly see it and the hubcaps along the fence.

Read more…

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The Yodeling Deputy by John Bolton

March, 1930
Goodland County, Oklahoma

The week of Delroy Wright’s 21rst birthday was eventful. He was sworn in as deputy in the Goodland County Sheriff’s Department and he a gig to play and sing at a house party come Saturday night.

Del was one lucky SOB and he knew it. Jobs were scarce as hen’s teeth and this was the job he wanted. Of course, it helped that his daddy was Sheriff.

Young as he was, Del had done some interesting things. He’d hoboed for just shy of a year. He would rather have found a good place and stayed, but had never found more than a week or two of work in one place.

He’d seen Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California - mostly from freight cars. And he’d been a bit of a scholar in the school of hard knocks. A scholar in that school is one who survives and learns a thing or two.

The drought and dust bowl years came early to Goodland County. When Del graduated from Clayton High, he could not find a job. There were no jobs. With the drought, there were almost no crops to harvest. He’d had a falling out with his father – mostly over Del not finding work.

Del hit the road. He left looking fit and athletic at just under six feet and one hundred and eighty pounds. He’d been a slick fielding short stop on the town team.  Even in his brown suit of clothes and with his chestnut colored hair parted down the middle, he looked like a shortstop.

He came home ragged, skinny, broke, hungry and sick. His father welcomed home the prodigal son. His mother nursed him back to health with good home cooking.

A jailer was fired after a complicated incident involving real Canadian whiskey – smuggled of course – and bad luck. Sheriff Lee Wright saw that Del took his place.

Del worked two years as a jailer. That time and maybe all his life, Del was in training for the family business of law enforcement. Del’s ambition was to be the third generation of Wrights to hold office as Goodland County Sheriff.

After near onto two years as a jailer, Del personally knew most of the county’s miscreants and petty criminals. If he did not know them personally, he knew them by reputation. He cultivated relationships with the prisoners and liked to get them talking about crime and scams. He was a good listener for such a young man.

The jail house word was out on Del. Treat him right and he’d treat you right too. Cause him trouble and trouble was coming back at you. Just like his daddy.

He started the deputy job on night shift, which was nothing new after being the night jailer. This was in the days before police academies and car radios. Del was the only deputy on duty. He was on his own. He was nervous, but hid it well.

He liked driving the 1928 Ford Model T. He liked being out of the jail. He looked fine in his khaki uniform blouse with brass star, black pants, WW I style campaign hat and gun belt with a 38 revolver and a night stick.

Del’s first week was mostly uneventful. He served court papers and two eviction notices. He did not like that, but it was part of the job. He made his first arrests; a farmer and his former hired man, both drunk and intent on knocking off each others heads.

Early on Saturday morning, before his shift ended, he took a call about a stolen mule. This was east of the train tracks in Colored Town. Del was disappointed when the day deputy came along. He had to let go of his first interesting case.

He headed home to try and get some sleep. It was a big night coming up and he needed to be rested. It was his second gig playing a house party. He’d played a similar gig a few months back. It wasn’t a complete failure, but he kind of felt like it was.

Music ran in the family. Del could not remember his grandfather Wright. He’d died when Del was a baby. But the old sheriff was said to be have been a good fiddler. Del’s father had the fiddle and could play it pretty well, but he seldom played it except during elections when he played it to get a crowd fired up and oh his side before he gave a speech.

Del dabbled at the fiddle, and used to play the four string banjo. His second week at the jail he met Jimmy McNeese and fell in love with blues music and the guitar.

Jimmy was sobered up, but still in the drunk tank. He looked to be around Del’s daddy’s age, middle fifties. Too old to be getting arrested for assault. He was a small man with a bushy head of hair that reminded Del of a picture he once saw of a buffalo soldier. His skin was a reddish black and he was said to be part Choctaw.

The first song Del heard him play was Statesboro blues by Blind Willie McTell, who was no relation to Jimmy.

Wake up momma turn you lamp down low.
Wake up momma, turn your lamp down low.
Have you got the nerve to drive a poor
Papa McTell from your door?

Del loved everything about the song, the music, the story it told, the way Jimmy sang it. The only music Del knew was church music and the hillbilly stuff they played on the only two stations the family radio would pick up.

Up to then, Del liked that music just fine. Jimmy showed Del the chords to the song. Since the four small strings on the six string guitar were tuned the same as the four strings on his tenor banjo, Del picked things up quickly. Two more strings, a different tone and a whole new kind of music.

Every work night Del would quietly play guitar between his midnight and two o’clock cell checks. By the time Jimmy got released, Del could play and sing five blues songs. Jimmy told him, “You sound pretty good for a white boy.”

Del traded his banjo and cash for a used Gibson guitar. It was his pride and joy.

The first house party he played was at Tim and Betty Nelson’s house. It was a learning experience. Del was nervous and played too fast. He didn’t know enough songs. When he sat down to play his second set – which was going to be pretty much the same as his first set, Mrs. Nelson came up to him and said, “Please don’t play no more of the nigger music. Play us some good ol’ songs. Can you yodel?”

Del was just about mortified.

This time around, he was better prepared. He had sixteen songs on his line up and twelve of those were songs the radio stations played. Plus he could play some church music if anybody asked.

Yodeling was popular on the radio at that time. Not the Swiss style. More a hillbilly or country thing. Del had a brain storm to ‘white up’ some blues songs. He cleaned up some of the lyrics and added a yodel, which in his case was singing at the high end of his tenor voice and without much quaver.

A few people told Del it was good and he thought it worked. Even Jimmy Mc Tell liked it but kind of laughed at it too. He said, “You got it Mr. Del. White peoples takes the colored out of colored song all a’ time. Could be you got a hit.”

* * *

Del stopped by the jail on the way to his gig. The day deputy was there and Del asked if he’d figured out anything on the mule theft. He hadn’t and since it was a colored crime – for sure a colored victim, he did not seem as interested as Del thought he should be.

Del took matters into hand. He walked down and talked to the colored man whose mule was stole. Then, guitar in hand, he walked into a little colored juke joint. It was early yet, but there were six men and two women drinking and talking and a woman behind the makeshift bar.

Del talked briefly with three small groups, showing respect and exchanging small talk. Then with a speck of truth and a lot of bluff, he told them, “I got a purty good idea where Leroy Starling’s mule wandered off to. He needs that mule to make a livin’. If that mule comes home before daylight, won’t be nothing more said about it.”

Folks listened, but offered no information. On his way out, the bartender called, “Mr. Del? Play a song for us?”

Del grinned and said, “Well, since you asked. Sure.”

He got the Gibson out of the case and played Statesboro Blues just like he’d learned it. Then as the juke joint gave him a little cheer, and mostly as a joke, he added, a little yodel.

* * *

Del walked back across the tracks and to the house party. He felt butterflies in his tummy, but he felt ready too. Time came and he introduced himself and said, “I’m gonna play you a song I wrote. I hope you dance to it and show me it’s a good one, It goes like this:”

Yo-doh-lady… Yo-doh-lady… Yo-doh-lady… hoo.
I went down to the barn dance and met Marry Jo.
Yeah, I went to the barn dance and met Marry Jo.
We ate pot luck supper and danced the cotton eyed Joe.

* * *

Del woke up Sunday morning feeling good about the house party. He had trouble hanging onto his pick for a song or two, but after that he settled down and had a real fine time.

He smelled bacon and coffee and went down to breakfast. His daddy asked him, “Did you hear the phone ring? Leroy Starling called and said his mule came home. He asked me to thank you.”

Del just sipped his coffee and smiled. He said, “Well aint that just fine? The prodigal mule.”

--------

Canned Heat Blues 

By John Bolton

Goodland County, Oklahoma, 1932

Two or three nights a week around ten or eleven, Deputy Delroy Wright would take a drive through Colored Town, which was the nice name for the rundown section of Clayton, Oklahoma. Colored Town squatted along the east side of the Kansas City Southern railroad tracks.

Del varied his routes and the nights and time. Not good to be predictable. Sometimes he would stop and talk if he saw folks out on their porches. He would most always go to the Eastside Juke and stand outside the front or back door and listen to the music.

The Eastside music was most always blues. It was never jazz. Angie Jackson, who ran the Southside, did not like jazz. She would say, “That shit just grates on my nerves. Mmm hmm.”

Week nights the music might be a phonograph or Jimmy McTell or Robert Frees on guitar and some of the boys who thought they could blow harp. It amused Del that the juke joint didn’t have a juke box.

It was a Sunday night, but the Eastside was open. Del parked the Model T and strolled up on the sagging wood porch that faced the tracks. He nodded at Angie’s current man, Tyrell Biggs, who was sitting in a porch rocker sucking on a handmade, the red glow showing bright in the dark. Neither man spoke.

A train was coming up from the south and Del waited. The whistle blew three lonesome pulls. By and by the northbound freight rumbled past at better than forty miles an hour. Red sparks danced out of the smokestack like a swarm of lightning bugs.  Tyrell tossed his cigarette into the powdery dust and said, “Smokestack lighting.”

Angie Jackson came to the door, caught Del’s eye and made the slightest motion toward the back. Del said, “Best I use the outhouse and hit the road.”

He moseyed around the side of the unpainted juke joint and toward the back. It was pitch black back there. Angie said, “I’ll smile so’s you can see me.”

“What’s up Ange?”

“You know what Squeeze is, Mr. Del?”

“You mean ah, like canned heat? Sterno? Crazy drunks pour it through rags and then drink it for the alcohol?”

“Yeh, but now the thing is to pour it through Wonder Bread. Mmm hmm. Brave Boy Atkins made some down to that Hobo Jungle by Hard Scratch. Got real sick. He laying out on the ground  there.”

Brave Boy was a Choctaw known to Del from his time as a jailer.   Hard Scratch was in the southeast corner of Goodland County. It consisted of Hansen’s General Store, the Church of Christ, five or six houses and an abandoned grain elevator. It sat along the crossroads of the KCS and an Oklahoma short line.

There was a timber nearby where the tracks crossed Indian Creek. There were two Indian Creeks in Goodland County and Del had heard there were about one hundred in the state. In the timber was a sometimes hobo camp called Hooverville.  Del figured that since the depression was on, there might be as many Hoovervilles as Indian Creeks.

A camp fire blazed about fifty yards off the road by the trickle of a creek. He thought he could see three people around the fire. He parked on the road and put a hand on his night stick and walked to the fire.

The three figures around the fire scrambled to pick things up and scattered into the timber. Del found Brave Boy lying unconscious on his side. There was puke all over his face and long hair and his throat gurgled with it.

Del screamed, “Hey! One of you sons a bitches come up here and help me get Brave Boy in the car. I aint here to give nobody no trouble!”

Del and an unknown hobo drug the comatose Brave Boy to the creek and washed him off as best they could. They half carried, half drug him to the car and stuffed him inside.

The Choctaws were closer than a doctor, so Del drove a couple miles into the next county and delivered Brave Boy there. He said, “Maybe better get him to the doctor. He looks to me like he could die.”

Del headed back to Clayton to clean up and leave a report with the jailer who also served as a dispatcher for the sheriff’s department.
                                                                       * * *

When Del came off his shift, his dad, the sheriff, was there. Del gave his report to the day deputy and the sheriff said, “Son, let’s go pay visits to Hansen’s General Store and the Choctaws. You look worn out and you smell like puke. I’ll drive.”

Prohibition was on and selling drinking alcohol was illegal throughout the land. Like a lot of the country, the Goodland County Sheriff’s department did not go out of their way to enforce the law. Bootleg liquor was available and unless things got crazy, the law tended to look the other way.

Hansen’s General Store was known to sell bootleg.  A year or two back after too much trouble with a few Choctaws getting crazy drunk, the sheriff made efforts with Hansen to reduce the problems. One of the attempted solutions was that no booze was sold on Sunday.

Sheriff and Deputy Wright went into Hansen’s store. Hansen was shuffling along with a burlap bag of potatoes. He saw the law, put down the spuds and stood by the counter with a guilty look on his face.

The sheriff reached over and pulled out Del’s night stick. He raised it slowly and brought it down hard and loud on the counter and not far from the hand Hansen quickly drew back. “Damn flies,” the sheriff said.

“Hansen?” the sheriff continued. You keepin’ to our agreement?”

Hansen said, “Yes sir!”

“You sell the Sterno to Brave Boy?”

“Yes sir.”

“You know what he was going to do with it?”

“Not for sure.”

“You know that shit can kill a man?”

Hansen looked at his feet and lied, “No.”

The matter was discussed and agreements were made.  Brave Boy lived and seemed no worse off than before.  Del never heard about anybody drinking canned heat around there for a long time thereafter.

-----------------------------------------------
Author’s notes: The song Canned Heat Blues was about drinking Sterno. It got people crazy and was dangerous.

I used to have a friend from Gordon Nebraska, close by a South Dakota Indian reservation. There was some drinking of Sterno there and they used bread to ‘filter’ it.

I added the Wonder Bread part. It builds strong bodies twelve different ways.

----------------------------------------------

The 32’ Election by John Bolton

Goodland County, Oklahoma,
October, 1932

Sheriff Lee Wright heard the sound of squealing brakes followed by a crash. More but different squeals followed the crash. Lee hustled outside to see a model T truck up against the steps and porch of King Hardware. There was a homemade livestock rack on the truck which was overloaded with three fat, squealing, grunting hogs.

The sheriff inspected the damage and talked with the farmer and Jeff King, the hardware man. The truck brakes had failed at the stop sign. The only damage was a flat tire on the truck and a busted board on the store’s steps.
The sheriff helped change the tire and then he and the farmer got in the truck and drove off at a snail’s pace.

An hour later the sheriff stood before the county board of supervisors and gave his monthly report which included calls, complaints, crimes, arrests and fines.

Jim Coin, a banker and president of the board, said, “Sheriff your fines totals are way too low. The county’s about bust. You’ve got to write more tickets. You need to make more arrests, pay your own way.”

The sheriff gave a tight grin, but made no reply. This was an old point of contention between him and Coin and sometimes the other supervisors too. They tended to go along with Jim Coin. It was worse right then because the county truly was almost broke and because Jim Coin’s son in law was running against the sheriff in the November elections.

Coin said, “Nate Myer saw a farmer run the stop sign on Main and crash into King Hardware. Coulda hurt somebody. Did you give him ticket?”

The sheriff sighed before responding, “Nope. His brakes failed. I’ll see he repairs the damage to King’s step. It’s all worked out.”

“Why not set an example? Ticket him. Running the stop sign, faulty equipment. Hell, Lee. Fine him for both. Pay a deputy’s salary for a day or two. Is that farmer a friend of yours?”

“Nope. I know where he lives. I know he’s got a family. I know he can’t afford a fine. I know he raises spotted Poland China hogs.”

“What did you do with him?”

“Took him to my barn and set him up with tools to fix his brakes and King’s step.”

Coin looked disgusted and said, “That’s a hell of a way to run a railroad.”

“Well Jim, this isn’t a railroad. It’s a sheriff’s department and my job is to keep the peace. Pretty peaceful around here, aint it?”

“That’s not the point, Sheriff. The point is, come budget time in January, there’s going to be cuts to every budget. Whoever wins the sheriff’s election, you or Fred McKee… is gonna have to bring in more money or reduce staffing.”

The sheriff knew Jim Coin was right. About all he could say was, “Yes sir.”

Lee Wright had been sheriff for twelve years and he needed one more term. Then he could retire at age sixty. The closer election day came, the less confident he was that he could win.

Lee liked to be the good guy and he tried to do what was right. He followed the spirit of the law more than the letter of the law. He tried to treat everyone with fairness and respect, even the coloreds, Indians, and folks just passing through. Even the hobos. A lot of people couldn’t say that.

The incident with the farmer was typical of the sheriff. He liked to help out and make things square. He’d done good turns to a lot of people. At the same time, he’d angered folks who were sticklers for following the letter of the law. Up until 29’ or 30’, his way of doing things had worked out fine. But with the depression on and the county getting poorer… he had to change. IF he got elected.

Lee’s opponent was a home town boy. Fred McKee was likable, younger and had big city police experience. Fred had money and important people behind him. He’d been with the Oklahoma City Police until he got laid off. Another job lost to the depression.

Fred came home to Goodland County where Jim Coin, his father in law, was chairman of the county board of supervisors and owner of the only solvent bank in the county. It seemed like Fred had good luck on his side. The most recent thing was the yard sticks. Lee ordered two hundred yardsticks. Each one read ‘Sheriff Lee Wright ~ the right man for the job’.

Lee made his rounds and handed out yardsticks here and there where he thought they might do him good. He gave one to a grocer. The grocer thanked him and said, “Have you seen these?” The grocer handed the sheriff a ‘yardstick’ that was four feet long and wider, thicker and better made than the ones the sheriff was handing out. The four footer read, ‘4 feet is better than 3. Vote sheriff for Fred McKee’.

McKee was all over the county talking people up. He was saying or hinting
that Lee was too old and soft on crime. He would say that since Lee’s son Del was a deputy and Lee’s wife was a school teacher, that the Wright family sure had their share of good jobs...

Harvest Days

There wasn’t much of a harvest with the dust bowl drought, but the county
was still having their annual celebration. Things were scaled back a little with but there would still be a parade, carnival and dance.

The sheriff heard Fred McKee would have a booth at the carnival and would ride in the parade in his father in law’s Cadillac. That didn’t worry the sheriff. He would march with the World War vets. That was one thing in his favor. McKee wasn’t a veteran.

The sheriff thought his ace in the hole was that he and Del were one of the three bands slotted to play at the dance. The sheriff had been practicing dance tunes on his fiddle. His son Del sang and played guitar and was a crowd pleaser. Lee was counting on the dance winning him some votes.

Hard times made free entertainment a big thing. Hundreds of folks lined Main Street for the parade. As the parade was lining up, Lee saw Fred in
the Cadillac convertible with the top down and a pretty girl in a red dress sitting beside him. He got close and saw the white sash across the girl’s red dress. Son of a gun, Fred had brought in Miss Oklahoma.

A color guard with the U.S. and Oklahoma flags led things off, followed by by the Clayton High marching band. Then came the Rough Rider Saddle Club, the PTA, the veterans, fire department, sewing circle, Fred and Miss Oklahoma, other county office candidates, the town baseball team and the boys scouts. The scouts had two red wheelbarrows and shovels and were cleaning up after the horses.

The crowd followed the parade into the county fairgrounds where a shabby little carnival was set up. The first thing Lee saw was a red white and blue banner reading, ‘Free Merry-go-Round Rides ~ Courtesy of Fred McKee. McKee for county sheriff.’

Of course the free rides were a hit. And of course Miss Oklahoma was in Fred McKee’s booth. Worse yet, Fred had a photographer. Anyone registered to vote in Goodland County could have their picture taken with Fred and Miss Oklahoma standing under a ‘McKee for sheriff banner.’

Lee was about to call it a day and go home when Del came up, grabbed his arm and said, “Come on dad. Let’s go make chicken salad out of chicken shit.”

Del led him to Fred McKee’s booth where the Wrights got their picture taken with Fred and Miss Oklahoma. Fred was gracious and the crowd had a good laugh.

Lee needed to go home. He felt things piling up on him and knew he could lose his temper over just about anything. He told Del he’d see him later, put on his fake smile and ambled toward home. He got stopped by well wishers, talked briefly and then saw Del at the boxing ring. He walked up and joined Del.

Mike Bailey, a big fellow and a bully, was next in the ring. That got Lee’s interest. The deal was to pay an entry fee and box with the pro. Last three rounds with the professional boxer and win ten dollars.

The pro was an over the hill middleweight, but he knew his business. He let Mike tire himself for a round and then battered him with body shots in the second round. Mike didn’t come out for the third round and he lost his entry money.

The sheriff had boxed in the army and he’d been company champion. On the battalion’s long voyage to France for the world war, Lee had done well in a tournament of boxers. He didn’t win it, but he came close and never got knocked down.

Lee decided to show people he wasn’t such a soft old man yet. The referee went into his spiel to entice another fool into the ring. Del turned to his father and completely in jest asked, “Have a go, Dad?”

Lee raised his hand and yelled’ “Right here!” He marched up to the referee and paid his fee. The referee took side bets and the sheriff climbed into the ring in street shoes, pants and long underwear faded from red to almost pink.

The first round went fine. Lee knew enough to fight defensively and not wear himself down. The crowd increased in number. By the end of the round, they were yelling for more action. The pro brought the fight in the second round. The sheriff had longer reach and a little know-how. He landed a few jabs and for the most part, protected himself.

The pro had a lot of know-how and mostly threw body shots. Some of those landed and landed hard. When he ref called, “Thirty seconds,” the pro moved in close, clinched and said, “Don’t come out for the third, old man. I’ll take your damn head off!” He slammed the sheriff in the kidney as the ref broke up the clinch.

Del handed his dad a towel and the sheriff wiped down his dripping face and head that steamed in the cold October air. Del said, “Good job, dad. Enough!”

The sheriff was a proud man. Still gasping for air, he told Del, “I’m okay. Throw in the towel if I get in trouble. I can last this guy out..”

The pro was a man of his word. He came out trying to knock Lee’s head off. Lee was game, but outclassed and wearing down. Before it got worse, Del screamed, “Enough” and threw the wadded towel at the ref.

The sheriff gave the towel a kick and a second kick out of the ring. He tucked in his chin, covered and went after the pro with a looping right. The pro side stepped and landed a vicious body shot. Lee dropped his hands and the pro delivered a one-two combination to the jaw and face. Lee reeled and staggered.

Del could see it was over and that his dad would get hurt if it went on. He clambered into the ring just as Lee fell, landing hard on his rump. Del took his dad down flat like a wrestler going for the pin. The sheriff had fight left in him and struggled to push Del off. They wrestled until Del yelled for him to stop.

The fight was over. Lee got up and wobbled out of the ring. The crowd,
including Fred McKee and Miss Oklahoma, gave a respectful applause. Maybe Lee acted like a fool. But he was their fool.

*****

At dance time the sheriff had a black eye and a fat lip. His ribs were bruised and a his kidney ached. Worst of all for a fiddler, his hands were swollen, stiff and sore. Funny thing, Del looked worse. Both Del’s eyes were black and swollen.

Lee played the Oklahoma Waltz and hit a screeching bad note. His face winced and he hit another clunker. He and Del did their best and it wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t good.

The following Tuesday was election day. Lee went home feeling almost certain the election was lost.

* * *

Election day felt very long. Voter turnout was good and a fair number of folks turned out to vote in the highly contested sheriff’s race. Some of those were people Lee had done a good turn or who knew someone he’d helped or maybe just folks that heard stories..

With votes coming in from around the county, it was after ten when the officials made their announcements. It seemed like the people most surprised by the sheriff results were the two candidates.

Lee Wright was reelected by a wide margin. The people had spoken. Sometimes three feet is better than four.

 

----------------------------------

Montana Mike by John Bolton

Montana Mike finished a thirty eight month stretch for burglary on 3 September, 1932. So far as the state of Oklahoma knew, that was Mike’s only conviction. The truth was, Mike had done a similar stretch in Montana under a different last name. He talked so much about the Montana penitentiary that the other inmates called him Montana Mike. He liked the name. It made him feel like a cowboy.

Mike bid his cell mate, Chuck Erwin, goodbye. Chuck was scheduled for release in February after completing a four year stretch for stealing a truck. The two cons planned to meet up around the first of March in Chuck’s home town, Poteau, Oklahoma. Mike and Chuck had plans.

The inmates in the Oklahoma State Pen in McAllester had a hero. His name was Clyde Barrow. Bonnie and Clyde and the Barrow gang’s crime spree was big news all over the country. For a lot of cons, Clyde Barrow was both hero and role model. When Mike and Charles got back together on the outside, they were going into the business of robbing banks and armored cars.

A requirement for getting Mike’s prison term reduced to thirty eight months was that he had proof he had a job lined up. With the depression on, there were almost no jobs. But using prison connections, Mike signed on with the Lucky Charm Carnival and was put on a bus to Tulsa to meet up with the carny.

Mike was the youngest of seven children born to a Swede dock worker in Duluth, Minnesota. His given name was Mikael Herzberg. His mother died of appendicitis when Mike was a baby. His older siblings, too young for the task, raised Mike with neglect and abuse. He was the runt of the litter and grew up mean and angry.

He was permanently expelled from the Duluth schools at twelve and went to work in an uncle’s roach paste factory. He lasted in that job until he was seventeen, skimming profits from the start and getting too greedy at the end. He left Duluth in a hurry.

He went to St. Paul, fell in with a bad crowd and learned the burglary trade. He was well suited for it. Mike was five foot six and one hundred and forty pounds. He was a strong, agile banty rooster and he could climb like a monkey. After a couple of years in Saint Paul, Mike escaped from a second story window with the cops at his door.

He headed west, was arrested for shop lifting in Fergus Falls and did his first jail time, thirty days. The night he was released he went to the house of the judge who sentenced him. He shimmied onto the back porch roof, entered the house through an unlocked window and took a wallet full of cash, a watch, a 38 caliber Colt and the keys to an Oldsmobile. Before leaving, Mike left a calling card. He squatted on a chair and crapped on the judge’s dining room table.

He bid adieu to the great state of Minnesota and headed west, now using the name, Mike Petersen. He whored and gambled away the banker’s money in Devil’s Lake, North Dakota, sold the Olds and then stole it back that same night. Mike got a kick out of that. He figured a man should enjoy his work.

He robbed a general store near Jamestown and for the first time felt the thrill of armed robbery. His take from the general store was so small that he soon robbed a farm supply store east of Bismarck. He sold the Olds in Bismarck and bought a T model Ford. Things went bad on his next robbery. Mike didn’t get a dime and got shot in the ass making his escape. It a was painful gash of a flesh wound. Sore and embarrassing, but not life threatening.

He got to Helena, Montana, rented a room and took up the safer trade of burglary again. He left some kind of calling card on the dining room or kitchen table of every burglary. He thought that was pretty funny until he was caught. The judge took the calling cards into consideration when he sentenced Mike.

When he was released from the penitentiary in Deer Lodge, Mike drifted down through Denver, Amarillo, Texas and Oklahoma City where he was caught for burglary again. The lesson Mike and Charles learned in prison was, ‘No more small time crime.’

Mike liked the traveling carnival. Even with long work days and minimal pay, it felt like freedom to him. He skimmed enough money from ticket sales to keep himself in booze and to visit a sporting woman every week or two.

With cold weather, the carnival moved down into south Texas. Mike got rough with a pretty Mexican hooker in Laredo and in turn, got beat up himself by her pimp. The carnival fired him for that and a variety of good reasons.

It was time to leave the carnival anyway. Mike burgled the carny that night but didn’t come up with any money. Mostly for spite, he stole a stuffed two headed kitten from the freak show and Queenie, a black and white border collie, a trick dog that was the carny owner’s pride and joy.

The northbound freight stopped near the village of Hard Scratch, Oklahoma at around seven in the morning. Two empty grain hoppers and a Golden Grain Flour box car were switched onto a side track and left behind. Montana Mike lay asleep in the box car, bundled up in two dirty green wool blankets with ‘his’ dog, Queenie.

Mike eventually woke up and realized the train wasn’t moving. He slid open the box car door and realized his predicament. He unbuttoned his trousers and pissed out the door. Stiff from the cold, he lowered himself to the cinder trackside. Queenie yipped and jumped down too.

Mike was pleased to see a little village on the far side of the box car, including a general store and gas pump. When the store opened he and Queenie walked in.  Mike called out, “Good morning!” and went directly to the warmth of a pot belly stove.

Hansen, the store proprietor, had seen more than his share of bums. Some of them had money so Hansen’s policy was to treat them decent unless he found out they were broke. He said, “Good morning. Can I help ya?”

“Ohh, I just came in to buy some dog food for Queenie. Let me warm up a leetle bit. Then I’ll look around and see what you have.”

The storekeeper went about his work but kept an eye on Mike, who was medium to lower medium height with a round little belly that showed from under his tattered gray topcoat. He had pale blue eyes, dirty brown hair, whiskers that needed shaving and a cookie duster mustache

A Choctaw man came in for supplies and Mike casually pocketed two tins of potted meant while he thought Hansen’s eyes were elsewhere.  Hansen went behind the sales counter and came back with a 32 Caliber revolver. He Marched up to Mike, stuck the gun in his face and demanded fifty cents for the two tins which were not worth even close to that much.

Mike took the cans out of his pocket and returned them to the shelf. He said, “I’m sorry, mister. I only took em’ cause’ me and the mutt are hungry. I’ll work for food if you let me.”

Hansen said, “You steal first and ask to work second. I’m calling the law.”

Mike said, “You son of a bitch, I’m goin’ now. You aint gonna shoot a poor hungry man in the back.”

Mike headed for the door just as two more Choctaw men came in. Hansen yelled, “Stop that thief!”

Sheriff Lee Wright escorted Mike and Queenie to the jail house. The jailer saw to it that Mike and the dog were

Queenie went home with the sheriff. It wasn’t the first time a dog, horse or mule went into the sheriff’s care.

Justice was swift. Montana Mike, now going by Mike Paulson, went to court the following morning. The judge heard his sad and false story of hunger and misfortune and Mike got off pretty easy with a week in jail.

The Wright family fell in love with Queenie. Mike had told the sheriff some of Queenie’s tricks and commands. She was the smartest dog anybody had seen. After a day or two, Queenie was going to work with the sheriff.

Sheriff Lee Wright and Queenie were present when Mike was released. Mike called Queenie and she ignored him and stayed at Lee’s side. Lee wanted that dog. He’d already told himself it was wrong to ask to buy her. But when Queenie seemed unwilling to leave him, Lee said, “It’s got to be hard to keep the dog fed on the road like you are. If you’d sell her to me, I’d take real good care of her.”

“Oh, I couldn’t let her go for less than twenty dollars.”

They negotiated. Twenty dollars was a lot of money for a dog, even a trick one. Mike wouldn’t budge on the price and the sheriff agreed to pay it. They went to the bank to withdraw the money.

The sheriff later got word that Mike had found a place to buy a bottle and was seen walking north along the tracks.

That night around two, Montana Mike was slipping the lock on the sheriff’s back door. Queenie fiercely barked at the door and woke the sheriff and his wife.

Lee Wright got out of bed and looked around and didn’t see anything suspicious. He figured maybe a raccoon or stray dog had come by. It was the first time he’d seen Queenie get so agitated.
*****

On the early morning of March 15th, Deputy Del Wright drove through the business section of town at a little after three in the morning. Del saw headlights a half mile or more away. He killed the lights and shut down the Model T.

A car approached, now with it’s headlights off. It went under a street light and Del saw it was a mud covered, but brand new 33 Ford V8, the kind of car Bonnie and Clyde were known to prefer. Two people were inside, both wearing hats. It looked like both were men, but Del couldn’t see their faces.

The V8 cruised downtown at five or ten mph. Del started the Model T, turned on his dash mounted red light and hand cranked his siren for the car to pull over. The V8’s lights came on and it roared away, easily leaving Del and the model T in the dust.

Del told his dad, the sheriff, what happened. Lee raised his eyebrows and said, “Bonnie and Clyde casing the bank? Shit, son. It could be. Can you stay awake for a while? Get you a place to watch the bank once they open?”

Lee called in the state police and he called in people he trusted around the county and asked them to call in if they saw a 32’ Ford or anything suspicious.

For two days the Sheriff’s Department and two state cops covered the bank. Nothing happened and the only reports of a 33 Ford could not be verified.

The state cops left town when the bank closed on Thursday. Sheriff Lee Wright told his deputies, “Let’s give it one more day, boys.”

Two calls came in on Friday morning that a 33’ Ford was headed south toward town. The bank opened Friday at nine with Del and Deputy R.D. Brown hid in the loan office with the window shades drawn. Both deputies had twelve gauge shotguns and their issue 38 caliber Smiths. Sheriff Lee Wright was in the dress shop across the street with a 30-30 Marlin rifle hid under a manikin’s dress.

The Ford V8 drove up to the bank with three men inside. Two were seen to pull bandana masks up over there faces. The two masked men exited the car with hand guns and hustled into the bank. One fired his gun and yelled, “Nobody move! I’m Clyde Barrow and ..”

Del kicked open the loan office door with the shotgun in hand and screamed, “Drop you guns, drop you guns, drop em’ now!”

Clyde Barrow fired at Del and Del fired back, the shotgun blast deafening in the bank. Buck shot slammed Clyde backward and he hit the floor. His partner ran for the exit.

When he heard the first shot, Sheriff Lee Wright stepped out of the dress shop, took aim and shot out the V8’s left front and rear tires and shouted to the driver, “Put up your hands or you’re dead!”

The driver complied and the remaining would be robber sprinted out of the bank and jumped into the car. Almost immediately, the passenger door reopened and the robber’s hands showed above the roof.

Del kicked Clyde Barrow’s gun away and pulled down his mask. It was a surprise and disappointment to see  Montana Mike and that Mike was dead.

But things worked out. The Sheriff’s department confiscated the black  Ford for their own use. The bank donated two new tires and Charlie’s body shop painted the doors white and lettered , ‘Goodland County Sheriff’.

The Hotel DelRoy ~ A Goodland County Story
By John R. Bolton

Good Friday, 1933
Goodland County, Oklahoma

Emma Wright had been a teacher for more than thirty years. She’d seen poverty as long as she could remember, but nothing like that winter of 32’ and 33’. Kids came to school skinny, hungry and without warm coats. It broke her heart. If something was broken or wrong or unjust, Emma wanted it fixed and would try to see it done.

That’s how the food bank and the soup nights came about. Emma’s leadership and connections led to starting them both, the food bank in November of 32’ and the soup nights in early 33.’ The food bank operated out of the county treasurer’s office. The sheriff’s office or county roads crew would deliver food to people out in the county. Emma’s connections included her husband Lee the sheriff and her son, Del a deputy.

A crew of five volunteers showed up on Good Friday, traditional potato planting day. Some years the ground was too wet and planting would be delayed. In 33’ the soil was dusty dry. A neighbor man had plowed and cultivated three acres with a big pair of reddish mules. Two acres would be planted in potatoes and all of the anticipated harvest would go to the Goodland County Food Bank.

The potatoes were planted and then watered with the irrigation system Lee and Del had rigged up. They were fortunate to have their well close by the natural spring that trickled through town. So far, the spring showed no signs of drying up. Other wells around the county had gone dry.

The next soup night was the Friday after Easter. It was held at Our Savior’s Lutheran. The host minister was supposed to say a brief prayer, but he overstepped his bounds. When he went over a minute, Emma started in with progressively louder ‘ahems’ until he got the idea, gave her a sheepish look and ended the prolonged blessing.

Emma and Lee and sat with a big table of Lutherans and ate vegetable soup and homemade bread and butter. The conversation tended toward hard times and the bank foreclosure auction of the Hotel FitzRoy to be held the following day.

The downtown section of Clayton, the county seat of Goodland County, was devastated as businesses closed. The Hotel Fitzroy closed in 30’. It was one of the first casualties of the depression. The bakery and restaurant on the hotel’s ground floor made it till’ 31 and then too. That entire building gone empty meant a dozen or more people out of work.

The newspapers said 25% of the men in the United States were unemployed. People figured it was that bad or worse in Goodland County. Besides the hotel, restaurant and bakery, the town of Clayton, had also lost a farm supply store, a feed store, a shoe store, a real estate office and two beauty salons. Things were getting ugly. Only one bank remained in the county and it was rumored to be having its own troubles.

The Hotel FitzRoy was built in 1902 with red bricks from the local brick yard. There had once been eight hotel rooms on the second floor, but the current setup was a small apartment and four rooms each with its own bath.

The building was said to be sound and had a fairly new roof. The restaurant, apartment and rooms were judged outdated and shabby. The bakery was in nice shape. Emma said, “Oh, I wonder what it will go for. It would be wonderful to have that bakery. We could bake and have our soup kitchen and food stores there.”

The soup suppers were not meeting Emma’s expectations. The setup was for local churches to rotate hosting Friday night soup nights. The food was free or people could make a donation of money or food supplies. The problem was that Protestants tended not attend suppers at the Catholic church and the Catholics tended not to attend at the Protestant churches.

And the Baptists… Clayton was predominantly Baptist. There were three Baptist churches and the reason for that was people getting mad about something and breaking off with their own church. At one time there had been four Baptist churches. A lot of those Baptists would not attend soup night at any church but their own.

Neutral ground was needed to make soup night a bigger success. Emma had tried to get Lee to try to buy the hotel. He would not consider it. For one thing, he and Del had both taken pay cuts with the new year. Them going to half pay was the only way the county could afford to keep a bare minimum of deputies.

****

Del worked that Friday night. Around ten he went to a domestic dispute. When he called in after that, he was told there was a fire at the old Garner Township School house.

The school was closed and in disrepair, but there was talk of the school board using or selling the building. Del headed there and could see flames for the last few miles. There were fire trucks and firemen there, but the building was a loss by the time they arrived. They let it burn.

On Saturday morning, Del sat in the red rocker in the sheriff’s department reading the newspaper and talking to his dad, the sheriff. He held out the front page and said, “Will you look at this shit? Now they’re calling it ‘The Great Depression.’

“Huh”, Lee grunted and said, “Don’t seem that great to me. Did you smell gas out there at the fire?”

“Yup. Purty sure somebody set it on purpose.”

“Nobody saw anything or anybody suspicious?”

“Nope. Just the school afire. Maybe if we go round and ask people when they’re by themselves.”

“That’s what I’m gonna do today. Goin’ to the hotel auction first. You goin’ too or goin’ home to sleep?”

“Believe I will tag along. Wake me if I fall asleep and snore.”
*****

Del had been living with his parents for the past several years. He paid a little rent and helped out with yard work, keeping the house and barn up and doing some cooking on the days his mom taught school. He’d been brought up to think he should move out of the house when he came of age but the depression changed the outlook on that. There were quite a few adult sons and daughters living with their parents. The other way around too.

Del took in extra money playing guitar and singing. Even after going to half pay, he was a lot better off than most folks. He’d saved nearly enough money to buy his dream car, a 33’ Ford Victoria V8, which was $545.00. The thing was, it would look bad for him to be driving around in a fine car like that when so much of the county was flat broke.

The auction commenced with a good sized crowd present. Del saw no strangers. Everybody was curious about who would buy the hotel, for how much and what they would do with it. The auctioneer stood on a chair in the hotel entry and cupped his hands and called out, “Good morning everbody! We got us a fine hotel for sale with a bakery and restaurant. Got an apartment upstairs. Ohh and it’s cozy! Make somebody a fine home and business. Could rent out rooms. All kinda possibilities here folks. Let’s start low and work our way up. Start the bidding at one thousand dollars. Do I hear a thousand?”

The crowd looked around at each other. No one bid and there was an anticipatory hum and low laughter.

“All right, all right now. Don’t be bashful. Somebody get the ball rollin’ here! Let’s start off now at nine hundred dollars. Nine hundred. Do I hear nine hundred?”

No response. The auctioneer conferred with the banker. He tried for seven fifty. Then seven. Six fifty. He huddled with the banker again. Six hundred – no takers. Five fifty. No bids. “People, people! This is your last chance to buy this fine building. Five hundred dollar. The bank will keep the property if it can’t get that much or more. Five hundred, five hundred, do I hear five hundred dollars?”

Del turned to his dad and asked, “Can I borrow twenty bucks?” The sheriff looked at Del with a puzzled look on his face. “I guess.”

Del stood, waved his arm and yelled, “Five hundred here. Hey! Somebody else bid. What am I gonna do with a hotel?”

Strange times. Del owned a hotel. People hung around and talked with Lee and Del about the hotel and the fire.

Del walked home to try and sleep. Lee took his dog, Queenie, and drove out to poke around the fire site, which still smoldered. Someone had plowed around the school yard to stop the fire from spreading.

The Sheriff pulled up to the nearest farmstead where a boy of ten or so was pushing a younger brother on a tire swing. “Howdy boys. How ya doin’?

“Purty good, mister. You here about the fire?”

“Yup. You know anything about it?”

“Nope. Can I pet yer dog?”

“You bet. She’s friendly. See anybody over at the school house before the fire? Any cars?”

“I saw a green and black car go in there last night about supper time. It weren’t a Ford but it looked kinda like a Model A. But it left an’ the fire wasn’t till after dark.”

The sheriff made the rounds of the neighborhood and learned nothing new. He went back to the first place and asked if he could take the boy to town. The boy’s name was Tommy and he was twelve, older than the sheriff had guessed. They drove around town and found a green and black 28’ Buick with unpainted wood spoke wheels.

Tommy said, “Yeah, it was just like that.”

The sheriff said, “Good job, boy. How bout’ we kind of keep this a secret? Don’t tell nobody we found that car. Okay?”

“Yes sir.”

“How bout we get you a bag a’ penny candy and take you home?”

******

The sheriff drove up to the hotel as Del was climbing down off a ladder. “What’s cookin’ Del?”

Del pointed up to the sign that previously said ‘Hotel FitzRoy’. Del had painted over Fitz and re placed it with Del. The sheriff shook his head and groaned. He said, “That’s some funny shit, Del. That why you bought the place?”

“Purty much.”

“Makes me glad you’re and only child.”

“Hey pops, you know the word entrepreneur? I never heard it till yesterday. Now I are one. Means somebody who gets rich off ‘bidness’ opportunity. I’ve got the apartment rented. Mom’s gonna use the bakery for the food bank, and I got people with ideas for the restaurant.”

“On- tra-what?”

*****

George Boley was the owner of the green and black 28’ Oldsmobile. He ran the Goodland Telephone Company. He’d been there since before the stock market crash of 29’. Came from Tulsa. The sheriff knew who he was, but didn’t know him. George was a single man living in a small house behind the telephone company.

Del knew him. “Yeah, I know him. Likes to gamble. I see his car around. Places I think got a game goin.’ I helped him get that Olds out of a ditch one night. He was drunk, but not stupid drunk. I followed him home and let him off with a warning. Seemed like an okay guy. I don’t see him burnin’ school houses.”

“Del, How’s the county gonna make money if we let everybody go?”

“Gees, dad. Booking em’s and all the paperwork. It’s bullshit.”

“Yeah. Great. So glad I hired you. Well, let’s not question him yet. Why don’t you ask around. Keep it quiet. And keep track of where you see him at night. Probably nothin’ll come from it.”

Del had seen George Boley’s Buick at Gerald Osborn’s farm the night before the fire. His and four other cars if Del remembered correctly.

Del knocked on Gerald’s Osborn’s door a little before six in the evening. Mrs. Osborn answered and he told her, “Sorry to bother you Mrs. Osborn. I need to see Gerald and that old milking barn.”

The milking barn was nicely fixed up inside. There was a pool table, a poker table, a black jack setup and a lot of bootleg whiskey. “Gerald,” Del said, “You are a bad, bad boy. Did you make that whiskey?”

“No sir.”

“Gerald, we know we can’t stop booze and gambling. Don’t pay to try. Seems like we don’t notice unless there’s trouble. And of course people got to treat us right. Treat me right, Gerald. Was George Boley here the other night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He win or lose?”

“Lost.”

“How much?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Quite a bit. Had a bad night.”

“Thanks Gerald. Do not, do not say anything about this to anybody. Same with your missus. Oh. Also, the sheriff says we don’t want to hear about people losing too much. Cut em off. Do you understand what I’m saying, Gerald?”

“Yes sir. Want to stay to supper? We’re having ham and beans and cornbread. And a taste of whiskey if you want.”

“Gerald, I can’t drink on duty. But supper sounds good. Thank you kindly, sir.”

****

There was another fire. This time a railroad shanty of minimal value. No one saw anything suspicious. The shanty was within easy walking of George Boley's place.

Things were looking up with the Hotel Delroy. The apartment and now two rooms were rented. The rent was low, but it was money coming in. Del was picky about who he rented to. He wanted people who wouldn’t tear things up. He wanted people to keep an eye on the place.

The food bank, now called ‘The Food Pantry’ had moved into the bakery. With Emma Wright in charge, the bakery was open Monday, Wednesday and Friday from noon till seven. If things went right, Emma didn’t have to do much.

The churches rotated days in the bakery and making the soups. They had neutral territory now and business and donations were better than expected. Both lunch and supper – a big bowl of soup and a thick slice of bread were served for free or a donation. The churches could also bake and sell rolls, pies and cakes and anything else they wanted and keep the profits. Del got a portion of that. Of course the churches seemed to be in unofficial competition over who made the best bakery goods and soups and brought in the most money.

Painting and work was underway for the restaurant too. Jerry Eischied who’d run restaurants before would run ‘Del’s Café’. This would be a for profit business. There was some worry that the soup kitchen would be too much competition, but they were going ahead just the same. Del’s Café would also serve pies and rolls from the church’s operating the bakery.

Del was flying high with success. He was working a quiet Monday night when a call came in about another domestic dispute at Tim and Patty Conrad’s. That was where he’d been had the night of the school house fire.

Dell got to the Conrads just in time to sidestep a hurricane lamp crashing through the front door window. Thankfully the lamp wasn’t lit and Del was pretty sure it wasn’t aimed at him.

He pounded thunderously on the door. It got quiet inside. He knocked some more and ordered, “Sheriff’s department. Let me in.”

Tim opened the door holding a bloody cloth to his nose and slurred, “Everthing ish fine here.”

“Really? Wasn’t that a hurricane lamp that just came through your door glass?”

“Yeah. Musta been a hurricane.”

“Huh. Didn’t think they got this far north. Looks like it gave you a nose bleed, Tim. Let me in.”

Tim opened up. The place did look like a hurricane had passed through. Patty looked drunk and disheveled, but unharmed. Tim looked harmed. Del asked, “You okay, Patty?”

“No. That little bastard hit me. And it ain’t the first time. You know that. Take his ass to jail this time.”

Del took the handcuffs off his belt, opened them and held them out for Tim to put on. Del said, “Okay then. A night in jail, Tim. This shit’s got to stop.”

Del put the cuffs on Tim and led him to the door. Patty suddenly wailed, “No! Don’t take my Tim!”

Things can turn to shit in a hurry. Del turned and Patty’s right fist slammed into his cheek bone. She’d put her whole two hundred plus pounds into the punch. Del’s knees buckled and he staggered into the closed door with the broken window. He saw red, but didn’t fall. Patty jostled between Del and Tim trying to save her man.

Del gave Patty a firm shove and she staggered backwards and tripped over a chair. Tim screamed, “Leave Patty alone, you shit-ass.”

He plowed into Del like a football lineman and then all three of them were on the floor. Del elbowed Tim in the face. Patty jumped on Del’s back, grabbed his right arm and sunk her teeth into it.

It was Del’s first time to hit a woman and he didn’t mind a bit. Later after the Conrads were in jail, he knew he’d messed up and let the situation get out of hand. He would have another black eye to show for it. But the feeling he’d messed up would last longer.

*****

Ginny Lewis was the night switchboard operator at the Goodland Phone Company. She heard a crash come from the front of the building and she quickly got up and locked herself inside the switchboard room. She called the sheriff’s department and the night jailer answered. Ginny told him someone was breaking in. Del was on duty and right there by the jailer. He ran to the squad car and sped away

George Boley used his key and came in through the back door of the phone company. He banged on the door to the operator’s room and shouted, “Ginny! The building’s on fire. Ring the fire bell!”

The control to the town’s fire bell was there in the switchboard room. Ginny rang it and fled the building while George stayed and hooked up a garden hose and tried to put out the fire. George was able to keep the fire from spreading laterally, but it got to the roof.

Del helped the volunteer firemen set up from the hydrant and the
roof fire was soon put out. The sheriff was there by then and he and Del talked with the fire chief. The three men approached George Boley.  George said, “Thanks so much to you guys. You saved most of the building. Really good work.”

The sheriff asked, “How’d you get here so fast this time of night? Did Ginny call you?”

“No, I was looking out my window before getting ready for bed. I saw somebody running away from the phone company and I came to see if anything was wrong. I got here and the office was on fire. I went in the back had had Ginny ring the fire bell and get outta there. I stayed and fought the fire.”

Del said, “My hero.”

Del grabbed one of George’s arms and the sheriff grabbed the other. The sheriff told the fire chief, “Smell his hands.”

The chief did and nodded affirmatively. He said, “Yeah, I can smell it.”

They cuffed George’s hands behind his back and roughly led him off to jail. They let him stew in a cell for over an hour and then brought him out to question him, still handcuffed and now with the county attorney present.

The sheriff scratched the whisker stubble on his chin and said, “George, we know purty much everything. The gambling losses, all three fires. Figure you must have been embezzling and set the fires to cover things up. I think we’ll be able to prove that too. At least you saved Ginny. That’s in your favor. Why not just make it easy and tell us the whole story?”

Geoge admitted to the fires and embezzling from the phone company. The county attorney typed up a confession. They removed the handcuffs and George signed it.

With Geogre in a cell and the county attorney gone, the sheriff, fire chief and Del sat down for a cup of coffee. Del asked the fire chief, “Could you smell kerosene or gas or his hands?”

The fire chief shrugged and replied, “If I get asked in court? Then yeah, I did.”

Del chuckled and said, “Good man.”

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