An Outlaw Story

They charged their weapons and mounted up. The boy rode the mule he and Cutter took from the prison wagon, using an old Mexican saddle Cole gave him. It was rotted and mouse-chewed, wood fork exposed, horn broken off. By noon the boy’s crotch was so chapped he threw the saddle away and rode the rest of the day on an old piece of folded quilt.

At about four in the afternoon they arrived at a sparse cottonwood grove that marked the course of an unnamed creek, a tributary of the Little Blue River. They were close to Nebraska territory, moving northwest, and they had traveled forty miles without receiving sign of man or animal. The land seemed to tilt upward, rising slowly but steadily in an unbroken series of low grassy hills, like ocean swells rolling ahead of a storm.

The mule had not recovered from the hard travel through Missouri and Kansas, and in the course of the day’s ride it came up lame, which caused it to fall behind. By the time the others reached the grove the boy had dropped so far back he couldn’t be seen, so Cutter decided to make camp for the day.
What if he gets lost? Cole asked.
Light a fire, said Cutter. He’ll see the smoke.
Cole muttered as he walked away. Next you know we’ll need a wet nurse.
Cutter glared at Cole, who started to collect twigs.
That’s right Teddy, that’s right. Gather them scantlings. Rest your brain awhile.

Over supper the travelers discussed remaining in close proximity to former sources of revenue. They acknowledged the likelihood of bad ends with a return to Missouri and in time the conversation moved to rainfall, floods, and the price of lumber in St. Joseph. As the evening wore on they explored in depth the crush of fortune seekers crossing the wilderness: the prospectors, squareheads, Methodists, Quakers, blacks (freedmen and bonded) and plow pushers of every stripe -- even the Mormons, who called themselves Saints, shunned in every community they neighbored.
Hell. They just keep addin’ on, multiplyin’ like flies at a picnic, said Cole. Got their own trail north of the Platte. Their own army too. Nobody wants the blasphemers around, but nobody’s interferin’ with ‘em neither. Won’t go near to ‘em.
The boy noticed Jumper, squatted on thin haunches off one side, black eyes focused on the darkness gathering beyond the glow of the fire, and he tried to recall the last time he heard the Indian speak. And then he saw Cutter staring vacantly into the flames, and he realized that Cole had been talking without an audience.
The evening star bloomed brightly on the horizon when Cutter tossed the last swallow of his coffee on the fire. Cole finally fell silent. Cutter stood, stretched and yawned.
Bank that fire good, Teddy, he said. Tomorrow ye and the kid ride up to Wilson’s Tavern. Me and Eli are headed west. We’ll be by in three days or so. Keep yer eyes and ears open for opportunity.

Cole watched Cutter strip his shirt and boots and unroll an old sourdough coat for a mattress. The outlaw laid down and rolled to face away from the fire. Cole looked at the boy.
Well that’s that, ain’t it?
The boy turned to look at the Indian but he was gone.

They woke well before dawn and watered their mounts and took a cold breakfast on biscuits and jerky. Cutter reminded Cole to keep to himself at Wilson’s, and to take note of what he saw “like Granny’s cat”. Then Cole and the boy struck out north of the creek, the boy glancing back from time to time to watch the other two shrink to dark specks as they rode west in the day’s first gray light.
They proceeded in silence for an hour or better until the boy’s pistol worked loose from his waistband and dropped to the ground.
Better let me handle that, Cole said, reaching his hand out.
The boy stuck the revolver back in his trousers.
It’s mine, he said. I’ll keep it.
Whatever you say, killer. Just try to keep from shootin’ yourself in the oysters.
The boy didn’t respond, but the dam of conversation was broken and Cole was eager to paddle the current. He reined alongside the boy.
How old are ye?
Nineteen.
Bullshit.
Old enough.
Salty huh? Well now, you take Henry. He’s the genuine article. Yessir. Thirty-two. That’s his number. Thirty-two men put to sleep. And that there is white men only. God only knows how many niggers n’ greasers n’ aberjeens.
The boy looked at Cole.
What? Aber – what?
Aberjeens. Injuns. I know for a fact he tangled with the Comanche on his way back from Mexico after the war. Him and a feller named Barnes was in the Mounted Rifles down there. Rode with Joe Lane at Huamantla. Come back real bloody. Anyways, they got theirselves crossways of thirty Comanche down on the Canadian River.
Cole took a drink from his canteen and continued.
The way I heard it, they was chased twenty mile by the heathens. Run their horses to the ground right out in the middle of the Llano. Just good fortune they was near a buffalo waller. They flopped down on opposite ends like it was a rifle pit.
Cole took off his greasy flop hat and wiped his brow.
I tell you, it must’ve been one helluva fight. Two days. Two days them red niggers kept after Henry and Barnes, but the boys was dug in like ticks. Savages was dyin’ with every shot. What’d’ya think of that?
The boy shrugged.
I don’t know. Heard every kind of Injun story before. Just because he told you don’t make it so.
Cole laughed.
Yeah, well, mebbe so, but it weren’t Henry who told me. It was Barnes, and he was dyin’ of consumption. Now I ask ye, why would he lie about a thing like that?
Still don’t mean it’s true.
Cole stopped. He took off his hat again, crossed his arms over the pommel and tilted his head like a man looking around a corner, only he was staring at the boy. His smile was gone.
Now I’ll tell ye somethin’ boy. As true as anything you’ll ever hear. You don’t know shit. And as far as Henry Cutter goes, don’t never make the mistake of thinkin’ ye got him mapped. Never.
He put on his hat and sawed his horse around. He dug his boot heels and set off at a canter. He didn’t speak again the rest of the way.

---

Wilson’s Tavern was a sway-backed, sod-and-split log, two- room box that marked the northern terminus of the trail connecting Westport with the Overland Trail.
With the first trickle of Argonauts in ’49 Amos Wilson, then in his 37th year, built the tavern as a way station and re-supply depot for overland travelers. A clever man with a keen interest in acquiring wealth, he foresaw the trickle turning to flood, and the ensuing years increased his business as farmers, merchants, and tradesmen swelled the flow. Demand escalated, and with it came an urgent need to expand sources of supply.

Wilson met Henry Cutter in 1850 when the outlaw stopped by the tavern seeking a buyer for a small herd of horses he’d stolen near Hannibal, Missouri. Astride his burgeoning enterprise Wilson was inspired to ask few questions beyond price and Cutter quickly recognized an outlet both reliable and safe. A bill of sale was a vestigial gesture, and few of the tavern’s customers showed strong inclinations to trace the origins of available stock, although a whispered reference to the virulence of the local strain of lead colic always provided sufficient disincentive to those who did.

Cole and the boy rode all day and through the night to reach the tavern at mid-morning the next day. Four horses dozed head to tail in the middle of a split rail corral that flanked the east side of the building, and a small rooster strutted the top rail in bright sunlight as the two travelers tied their mounts to posts on either side of a dry wooden trough.

They opened the tavern door, throwing a wide swath of daylight through the reeking interior; their silhouettes centered the doorway for a long moment while their eyes adjusted to the dim, smoke-layered atmosphere.
Behind the plank-and-barrel bar a figure moved.
Welcome travelers, said Amos Wilson, as he finished drying a chipped, clouded tumbler. Welcome, he said again.
Cole replied.
Amos, you old thief.
That you, Teddy?
Cole shut the door.
None other.
Step up here, Teddy. Let us have a look at ye.
The boy moved with Cole toward the bar, noticing the crude walls lined with crates and sacks of flour. Shelves behind the bar were filled with tinware and pots. The whole room smelled of dirt and sweat mixed with soured furs, coffee and tobacco smoke. At a corner table two men sat playing cards.
Who’s your shadow? said Wilson.
This here’s Mister William Light, late of Missouri.

Everything about Wilson said frontier – buckskins, long hair, even the large, bone-handled bowie knife that jutted from the red sash about his waist. Wilson smiled, reached out a hand; in the dim light the boy saw a jagged, lightning-shaped scar that ravined the left side of the man’s face from jaw to hairline.
Howdydo Light. What’ll it be?
The boy shook his hand. He couldn’t take his eyes off the scar.
Wilson noticed. Helluva beauty mark, ain’t it?
Cole laughed.
What’s in the keg today, Amos?
Wilson grabbed a couple of glasses and filled them, set them on the bar before the boy and Cole.
Just brought in from St. Louie. She’s a tad fresh, but nobody who’s drunk it here has died, to my knowing.
Cole lifted his glass in toast.
In yer eye. He swallowed, smacked his lips, took in a deep breath and held it. His eyes watered.
Whoooeee. Jesus Lord. God Amighty.
He looked at the boy. His voice was a rasping whisper.
Better hurry boy. It’ll eat its way outen that jigger.
The boy lifted his glass, swallowed. The warmth of the liquid intensified as it slid down his throat; all of a sudden he couldn’t catch his breath. He gagged, then coughed. Tears blurred his eyes.
Wilson picked up his glass.
She take the wrong pipe, boy?
He filled the glass again.
Better have another.
The boy noticed he had the room’s attention, so he quickly tossed the second glass down. The effects were immediate. He shivered uncontrollably. More tears. He bolted for the door, barely clearing the threshold before he puked. Laughter drifted through the open door as dry heaves doubled him up against the wall.
When the spasms subsided he slid to a sitting position, wiped his runny nose on his sleeve and breathed deeply. Jesus, he said softly, Jesus.
He blinked repeatedly to clear the blur from his vision, trying to assess the likelihood of blindness. He’d heard of men going blind from bad whiskey, and certainly this was the worst whiskey he’d ever had.

Inside Wilson lit a clay pipe. Cole leaned on the bar.
So Amos, what’s in the wind?
Mmmm… some pilgrims come through. Mebbe twenty wagons since the first. Mormons up north, across the Platte, I hear.
He poured Cole another drink.
Damn Pawnee too. Stealin’ everthing ain’t nailed down. Bold sonsabitches just rides up to the wagons n’ points at what they want. Sometimes they get it, sometimes they sneak back after dark.
Stock?
Anything.
One of the two card players stepped up to the bar with an empty bottle. He carried two Navy Colt pistols in his waist sash.
Cole continued talking to Wilson.
I hear plenty of abolitionists movin’ in.
The card player turned to face him.
Say, friend. Ye subscribe to that abolitionist shit?
Cole shook his head.
Don’t know a one of them, he said.
The card player’s eyes narrowed. He was obviously drunk.
Good for ye. Goddamm good for ye.
Where ye from? Cole asked.
Missouri, by God. And we aims to make certain this country stays open to a man and his property, if you know what I mean.
Cole shook his head.
Well, I ain’t exactly sure that I do.
The card player straightened himself.
I mean the goddamn free staters ain’t tellin’ me nor anyone else where we can take our darkies.
He slipped a hand down over the grip of one of his Navy Colts.
Now ye understand?
Wilson moved toward him.
Now, now. Stand easy, gentlemen.
The card player ignored him.
I asked ye a question, friend.
Across the room the other card player shoved his chair back, stood, opened his coat to reveal a revolver.
Cole shifted uneasily.
I understand. Yessir.
The man at the bar sneered, turned back toward the bar. Cole’s hand moved slowly to the butt of his own pistol while he spoke.
I understand you nigger jockeys have strong inclinations on the matter.
The man at the bar looked at him; Cole continued.
As for me, I don’t care one way or the other…
He paused as his hand tightened on his pistol grip.
…but to tell the truth, it’s you border trash I can’t tolerate.
Silence seized the room as the words took effect. Then the card player spoke:
Son of a bitch.

His pistol was nearly leveled on Cole’s chest when Cole’s bullet struck him in the breastbone. The impact took off his hat and knocked him back several steps to land hard on his back, his head bouncing once on the hard-packed dirt floor. But before he fell his finger tightened on the trigger of his cocked revolver, and he creased Cole’s right thigh with a single .36 caliber ball. Cole screamed and fell backward.
With Cole’s shot the second card player drew his pistol and took a quick step to his left to see past the thick bloom of powder smoke that seemed to fill the room. He intended to finish the sassy son of a bitch and he concentrated on his target as he raised his pistol. But movement to his left caught his eye and he turned toward the tavern’s open door.

In the bright light stood the boy, pistol raised. The second card player hesitated; the boy did not. His shot tore through the man’s windpipe. Drowning in his own blood, the man dropped his weapon and moved forward, eyes wide, arms reaching out in supplication. He approached the doorway and the boy gently stepped aside as if to give him passage, then killed him with two shots to the chest.

The boy looked at Cole, who rocked back and forth, keening quietly as he held his injured leg.
I’m bleedin’ bad. Lord, I’m bleedin’.
Wilson raised his head from behind the bar and looked over in the direction of the man Cole shot. The man groaned and moved slightly. The boy walked over to stand beside him. The wounded man’s eyes were open, afraid. He looked up at the boy.
Help me. Help me boy. I’m shot to pieces.
The boy looked at Wilson, then back at the man on the floor. Blood saturated the man’s shirt; the boy could smell it.
Please boy, the man said.
The boy looked at him for a long moment, then raised his pistol and fired a ball into the man’s forehead.
Mother of God, said Wilson.

It was dark by the time Wilson and the boy dragged the two dead men out back to the hay stacks, bandaged Cole’s leg, then fed and watered the stock and themselves.
Cole had developed a fever; his wound was cleaned as well as circumstances permitted, but the leg took on a purplish cast and swelled again by half.
Lord, cried Cole, Lord, I’m bound to lose it.
Yer lucky, said Wilson. Ball went clean through. No busted bones, and the bleedin’ stopped. Oh, she’ll drain for a few days, but if she don’t take infection ye’ll likely keep the limb. No footraces for a time, Teddy.
The boy sat quietly by himself cleaning and reloading his pistol. His stomach churned from the effects of bad whiskey and Wilson’s cooking, but there was something else on his mind: the law. Men had been killed today, yet there was no talk of a sheriff or jail. It was a fundamental change, one the boy pondered as he worked, looking up occasionally, smelling the gunpowder that hung in the stale air. In a while it came to him: here right and wrong was not argued in courts nor decreed from pulpits, but decided by survival and enforced through the means of survival. Every act was a law unto itself, justice complete, its verdict rendered in blood.

As the evening wore on Wilson and the boy moved about without speaking while Cole, hollow-eyed with pain, drank whiskey and murmured softly into the room about men he knew who’d lost limbs, until the hours thinned and each of them settled into the day’s events in his own way, found a place to stretch out, and fell asleep.

It was almost midnight when they woke to the sound of hoofbeats. The boy quickly took up his pistol among the crates along the wall; Wilson crouched behind the bar, his finger on the trigger of a Colt’s dragoon. Cole snored loudly, consigned to fevered dreams by the whiskey.
The door opened.

Wilson?
Henry?
What’s the matter?
Hold on. Hold on, I’ll get a lamp.
Wilson’s match flared as Cutter crossed the room, took a glass from the bar and poured himself a whiskey. He drank it, poured another and turned to face the room, propped against the bar on his elbows. His eyes moved about the space, assessing their faces. He looked at the boy, then Cole, still sleeping in the lamp’s flickering light, his leg propped upon grain sacks. Cutter spoke as he stared at the bandage.
Well now. Looks as though there’s been mischief in my absence.
Henry, Wilson said, but Cutter cut him off.
Know anyone can use a half dozen Indian ponies, Amos? Me ‘n Jumper, we run across a small cavvy.
He kicked the grain sack under Cole’s head, waking him. Cole looked up at Cutter, who took another sip, continued.
Can’t vouch for their temperament under saddle, but they seem sound.
Cole spoke: Henry, we had a helluva day here.
Cutter kept speaking to Wilson, his eyes fixed on Cole, who fidgeted under the outlaw’s stare.
Amos, I asked ye a question.

The boy noticed the Indian emerge from the darkness at the tavern’s open door -- a spectral image, cradling a Springfield carbine in his dark arms. Jumper looked right at the boy, and the boy realized that he still held the pistol, and he knew why the Indian watched him.

Wilson stepped forward, leaned against the bar.
There’s two dead Missouri slavers out in the hay pile.
Yes Amos. They’re still there. I seen ‘em before I come in.
Then you know the market for Injun ponies may be less than brisk around here, particularly if the deceased men’s relation come lookin’ fer ‘em.
Cole spoke up.
Henry, I didn’t…
Cutter’s face hardened.
WHAT’D I TELL YE, GODDAMMIT? WHAT? KEEP YER WITS, THAT’S WHAT I SAID. JESUS JUMPIN’ CHRIST, CAN'T YOU EVEN TRY NOT TO FORGET WHAT I TELL YE?
He looked at Wilson.
You knew those men?
They been here before. Mostly just travel through, have a few drinks. On the lookout for abolitionists.
Cutter turned his attention back to Cole.
Tomorra mornin’ bright and early, ye got some some diggin’ to do.
Cole shook his head.
But Henry, my leg. She’s all swoll up.
Oh? I hope she busts open.
It weren’t all my fault Henry. The boy, he kilt ‘em.
Cutter looked at the boy, then at Wilson, who nodded.
Cool as you please, Wilson said. Just started shootin.’ Didn’t stop until there was no breath left in ‘em.

Cutter drained the remainder of his whiskey and walked over to the boy, who continued to hold his pistol.
That so?
The boy made no reply, but kept his eyes on the outlaw’s face. Cole interrupted.
I shot the first one, Henry, he…
SHUT UP.
Cutter pulled up a chair, sat next to the boy.
How about it, son? You kill these men?
I done my part.
Your part? Cutter asked. Tell me, boy, what’s your part of them ponies that I can’t sell? What’s your share of the money we won’t have?
The boy was silent. Cutter stood.
Well, you earned a share of the diggin’, anyway. And the trouble too. Because that’s what we got. It’s trouble.
What ain’t? the boy asked.

A half hour after sunrise Cutter woke on a straw pallet, scratched himself, rose and walked across the room to the bar where Wilson sorted through receipts.
Mornin’ Henry.
Anything to eat Amos?
Cold stew.
That’ll do.
Wilson took a bowl to a covered kettle, spooned some stew and brought it to Cutter, who sniffed the contents.
How long this meat been dead?
Wilson smiled, his gapped teeth crooked and stained.
Recent. Still got hair on it.
Seen the Indian this mornin’?
Wilson shook his head.
Don’t know where he bedded down, even. Gone before sunup, I think.
How about Cole and the boy?
A while ago they went out. Said somethin’ about shovels.
Cutter took a bite of stew, pulled something from between his teeth. Wilson set out a cup, poured a whiskey.
Where’d them ponies come from, Henry?
The tavern door swung open. The boy stood in the doorway.
You done diggin? Cutter asked.
The boy just stood there.
What is it boy?
The boy turned to look behind himself, then back to face Cutter.
You might step out here, he said.
Cutter took another bite of stew, drank the whiskey and walked to the door, picking up one of his pistols on the way. He wore only his combinations and dirty wool socks.
When he reached the door he shaded his eyes against the morning sun, which was so bright he took three steps outside before he was able to look up.

There were twenty of them, mounted and fanned out in a semicircle in front of the tavern. They smelled of smoke and horses and sweat and rancid grease, and they wore an assortment of ragged muslin shirts, leggings and blankets. Their weapons included bows and trader hatchets, lances, and several rifles in various states of disrepair. Some of their faces were striped in ochre and vermilion, one was chalked white, the rest blackened with charcoal. Several wore hats, the crowns cut open. A few capped themselves with feathers or dyed porcupine roaches and three wore wolf scalps, ears attached. Large metallic hoop earrings glinted in the sunlight, along with shells, metal crosses, various accoutrements of human hair manufacture, bone whistles, long strands of blue glass beads, and chokers strung with teeth.
They were silent, save one warrior in the middle, who sang a war chant while holding the muzzle of an ancient fusil against Cole’s backbone.

The singer sat astride a round-bellied, piebald pony bearing painted red circles around its eyes. To its mane were attached a half dozen small amulets; its tail was tied up for war, and painted lightning striped its flanks and shoulders. All their horses bore similar decoration, and the whole of it – this horrifying communion of man and beast in paint and feathers – seized the minds of the whites like a great bird of prey, which was the precise calculation.
Cutter gasped.
Jesus Jumpin’ Christ.
Cole pleaded. Henry. Henry. Do somethin’.
The singer ceased his chant and began to speak, accompanied by gestures of hand and eye. It was considered rude behavior among many of the Plains tribes to get right to the point of any discussion, so the speaker commenced with a series of elaborate descriptions of personal achievement in romance and war. He gave his name as Koot-tah-we-coots-oo-lel-le-shar, which in translation meant Hawk Chief. He identified himself and his companions as Skidi Pawnee, members of the Fox Society, and said they had chased horse thieves all night, and that the horses stolen from them now resided in the pole corral next to the white man’s lodge. He said he could not identify the thieves among the white men who stood before him, but he was certain they were here, because why would a sensible thief leave good horses behind?
It was Wilson who guessed the meaning.
I believe the ownership of them ponies is in dispute, Henry, said Wilson.
He looked at Cutter.
Where’d you get ‘em?

At that moment Hawk Chief got around to mentioning the two dead white men that the boy and Cole had attempted to inter. He explained that it was not the habit of his people to allow the loss of life to go unnoticed, so he asked if they were enemies, and who had killed them.
In an unfortunate coincidence, Cutter decided the time was right to step forward and press what he felt was a reasonable and possibly profitable attempt to distract the Pawnee: DO YOU WANT TO BUY SOME PONIES? he asked, speaking loudly, as if to assure the translation. Because he possessed a pistol, the Pawnee responded by drawing their bows and raising rifles.
Cole whimpered. Henry, please, for Christ sake.
Cutter raised his hands.
I’M SURE WE CAN REACH SOME ACCOMMODATION, he added.
Hawk Chief turned to his companions and searched their faces for any recognition of meaning in the white man’s words, but not one of the warriors proffered relief, so he turned back to Cutter and after a long moment of reflection told him that since no Pawnee had been killed by the horse thieves, neither he nor any of his fellows would harm the whites, especially since it appeared they were already occupied with killing each other. He then made sign for whiskey.
Aw hell, Wilson groaned.

The whiskey they did not drink they strapped to the backs of the reclaimed ponies, along with everything they found useful, including goods they perceived as merely decorative. After five or six hours they had tossed the tavern’s entire inventory, and what little they could not wear or eat or drink they destroyed.
As they rode away their horses clanged and clattered, draped with tin ware, pots, and sacks of grain. Trailing a light fog of flour, the native riders and mounts moved off, dusted white in a ghostly, yelping procession.
They honored Hawk Chief’s promise not to harm the whites. But the whiskey had soured their dispositions, so before they departed they stripped the captives naked, tied them back-to-back and sat all four in wet manure in the middle of the corral. The warriors daubed them liberally with dung, which lightened the mood considerably, and for a full hour the Indians danced and laughed and shook their naked rumps in the prisoners’ faces.

Hawk Chief was the last to leave.

He was drunk to the extreme, wobbling uncontrollably and weeping, weak from vomiting. He somehow led his pony, the piebald, into the corral, dropped the pony’s jaw rope and stumbled forward, landing on his hands and knees in front of the boy, whose eyes watered as the Indian’s strong odor of vomit, sweat and whiskey swept over him.
The boy looked into the Pawnee’s eyes, which were dark and narrow, centered with a primal gleam that cast a sudden, cruel cognition, and the boy wondered if the Indian was about to draw his skinning knife and commit bloody mayhem.
But the Indian did not draw his knife. He spoke instead, spittle forming at the corners of his wide mouth, arms flung outward as he rocked back and forth on his knees, his voice quaking, like a condemned man pleading for mercy.
Hawk Chief was, in fact, asking forgiveness. He talked about how he had once seen the white soldiers come to a Pawnee village up on the Elkhorn River, a wagon gun in tow. He said he remembered the soldiers were angry about stolen cattle, and there was terrible thunder and smoke, and suddenly earth lodges were gone and many Pawnee were torn to pieces. He wept as he spoke, his dirty, gnarled fingers smearing tears into the folds of his cheeks until the confluence of soil and vermilion paint formed dark, rust-colored streaks that ran from eye to jaw on both sides. He asked the captives not to judge the Pawnee too harshly or begrudge them the few recovered horses. He said they were a poor people, made so by the diseases the whites brought among them, and by the raids of their enemies, the Sioux and Cheyenne, and by drought, and by their fondness for the white man’s burning water, which stole their wits. He asked the four to remember the warriors had spared their lives, which he said was no small gift, because they could have easily done otherwise under the influence of whiskey, which they regarded as a type of insanity.
Then he fell silent. He rose, teetering, eyeing the captives as he assessed the effect of his oration.
They understood not a word.
Hawk Chief blinked. He yawned, staggered over to the piebald, mounted and rode off, whooping loudly. Cutter sucked his teeth.
Jesus Jumpin’ Christ, he said. Steeped in shit, gulled by ignorant savages. Somebody shoot me.

They passed the night bound together -- silent, shivering, sleeping fitfully as clouds of mosquitoes descended, fed, and flew away.

Hard Times

"Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many years
while we all sup sorrow with the poor
there's a song that will linger forever in our ears
oh, hard times come again no more"
- "Hard Times"


Panic. Recession. Depression.

The bust cycle has always been part of our economic landscape. Once again, 'business as usual' may be temporarily obsolete, but damage control is in full swing and changes - pervasive and permanent - are on the way. We are the economic engine of the world; too much and too many depend on that fact.

My perspective on this mess is that we, as a capitalistic society, are faced with one of the consequences of our free market "can do" ethos. Subprime lending and its derivatives whipped up an instant-wealth frenzy that completely subrogated common sense and rational interest in long-term security. Gordon Gecko took command: To hell with the consequences, there's money to be made. Greed is good.

But where would we be without the zealous pursuit of wealth? Perhaps not in the driver's seat of the world's money machine. Maybe not even spanning the shores of our own continent. Jefferson estimated it would take 100 generations to organize and settle the territory gained in the Louisiana Purchase. It was essentially done in five - including Texas, Arizona, New Mexico and California.

Git ' er done.

It was a messy and at times bloody process. History clearly shows that the exploitation of opportunity by one group can mean the end of opportunity for another, and it's the difference between "can do" and "should do" that carries the highest price. That's the real lesson here, despite all the petty political bickering. In this country the economic bulldog will always be hungry; perhaps someday we'll figure out how to feed it something besides each other.

The Good Old Days

Occasionally I hear someone talk about how they were born a hundred years too late, and how they wish they had lived in the Old West. You may know the personality type: self-described independent, self-sufficient, ideally suited to deal with the challenges imposed by Nature (and occasionally man.)

I used to be that person.

That is, until I got the chance to work on a ranch for a summer during my college years - cutting and hauling hay, riding horseback to move cattle, branding calves, harvesting crops, milking cows, tending hogs, cleaning a large chicken coop.

The work made me think about the way my great-grandfather lived. He was a homesteader in Nebraska in the late 1870s. I often wondered about his life, wishing I could have been around back then. Inevitably I compared my ranch experience to what I imagined life was like on his quarter-section claim(160-acres.) Big reality check: Take away the tractors and most of the implements - no baled hay, no corn sheller, no 40-foot dump rake, no motorized grain auger. No electricity, no indoor plumbing. No air conditioning. No pickup trucks. No cold beer on tap, no steak houses, no movie theaters. No Friday night softball games, no showers. AND VERY LITTLE TIME OFF.

I took a walk through the small rural cemetery where the old man is buried and I looked at the dates on the tombstones. The ground is full of the county's earliest residents, from farmers to lawyers. And their children - a clue about 19th century medicine. When I was young I had pneumonia, chicken pox, measles, the flu, strep throat. In the Old West any one of those illnesses could've been the end of me... not to mention the possibility of catching diseases we rarely hear about in this country today - tuberculosis, cholera, diptheria, dysentery. And how about septicemia from a simple cut? Tetanus?

Average life expectancy: 40+ years. High infant mortality, every pregnancy high risk.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized life back then was not only uncomfortable, it was downright dangerous. Most Old West "wannabes" don't take that into account.

We don't realize how much we take for granted today - especially all the technology that wasn't even imaginable to 19th century Americans. I remember watching some episodes of "Frontier House" on PBS a few years back. It was a reality series in which three families from locations around the country lived for six months as 1880-era homesteaders in the Montana wilderness. An interesting study in adaptation to the rigors of day-to-day frontier life (sans fires, fractious animals, injuries, disease, Native American problems.) As much as the participants suffered from hunger, the lack of useful skills and exposure to the elements, it occurred to me that their toughest hurdle was being aware of how much easier modern life actually is. That's a burden the pioneers didn't have while they chopped wood, built sod houses, plowed, hauled water and prepared their meals from scratch (and I mean from scratch - find it, kill it, clean it, cook it).

My point is, if you want to be the hero of your own imaginary Western, fine. But don't automatically assume that because you've seen John Wayne and Clint Eastwood ride into the sunset you know enough to go back and get it done. What you've seen ain't the half of it. As for me, I'll always be grateful for my experiences working on a ranch. They taught me my great-grandfather must've been one helluva hard-working man, but I no longer want to change places with him. To quote my dad, "Son, don't kid yourself about 'the Good Old Days.' If they'd been all that good, we'd still be there."