Walkin’ To St. Paul

The culture of the West is changing, and I don’t like it. But, after givin’ this matter a little thought, I’ve come to the conclusion that the West has been in a constant state of flux for a couple of hundred years now, and the old guys never have liked it.

This really isn’t anything new. The Indians didn’t like it when us whiteys started movin’ this way, the big cow outfits didn’t like it when the homesteaders started farmin’ up their free range, and probably nobody liked the fact that a lot of the homesteaders dried out and moved back to where they’d come from, owing money that would never be collected.

And the change continues. Our little rural schools that were once filled with country kids that actually got an education are no more, and the main streets of our home towns are drying up and blowin’ away. Only one thing stays the same ... the old guys have never liked change.

One of the big culture changes came when the cattle industry began using trucks to move their livestock. For 75 years or so, the railroad was the only viable means to transport our western cattle to the Midwest markets. I was too young to get in on riding a cattle train to market, but by the stories I’ve heard, I sure missed something.

There are folks that would probably argue that riding a cattle train wouldn’t have anything to do with culture, but if you’re a country boy that only gets into a little one horse town maybe eight or ten times a year, the chance to ride a train to a big city like Omaha or Sioux City would be the highlight of your year. That sure sounds like culture to me.

Here’s a cowboy culture story from 50 years ago or so:

It was the fall of 1952, and The Great Northern Railroad had one of several cattle trains headed east on the highline to the stockyards in St. Paul. There were about 20 cowboys ridin’ the caboose hooked to the rear of the train as it pulled from the loading point in Chinook, MT.

It was the highlight of the cowboy social season. Several bottles of varying varieties of the very finest booze known to mankind were stashed among the suitcases of “town clothes” the boys had brought along with them. Of course the train had yet to turn a wheel before the first bottle was pulled from its hiding place. The cattle were all loaded and they were headed to St. Paul. That sounds like a good reason to celebrate to me. The slow moving train had barely cleared the siding on its way to the main rail line when the first jug was already history.

The first leg of the trip went to Minot, ND, where the cattle were unloaded to be fed, watered, and rested before resuming the remainder of the trek to the big market back East. The hot topic of conversation was the recent election. Dwight D. Eisenhower, the World War II hero, had recently trounced Adlai Stevenson in the presidential election.

We’ll never know exactly how many of the boys had actually voted for Ike, but the election was over, the Republicans had won, and of course everyone on the train wanted to be on the winning side so they were all Republicans; everyone except Bill Felton.

Bill was a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat, and the rest of the guys gave him a pretty hard time all the way to Minot.

“I knew Ike was goin’ to win,” Eddy Olson quipped. “He led us boys in whippin’ Hitler, an’ beatin’ up on a Democrat is nuthin’ compared to that.”

“I’d o’ voted for a yella dog before I’d o’ voted fer that bald headed &%$#,” Bill fired back.

“Don’t look like Stevenson has much hair either from the pictures I’ve seen,” Howard Sayler piped up. “’Sides, that guy’s nuthin but a lawyer, and he worked fer the Feds durin’ Prohibition. Can’t get much lower than that.”

The madder Bill became in defending his Democratic convictions, the harder the boys laid it on. The odds in the caboose were 19 to 1, and the poor guy didn’t have a chance. Other than the political discussion, the trip to Minot went as smooth as could be. The only casualties being several empty booze bottles and Bill’s bruised ego.

The cattle were unloaded in Minot and put on good feed and water. The raucous merriment continued. After all, they were halfway there. Sounds like a good reason to celebrate to me.

The yearlins were reloaded, the dwindling supply of liquid refreshments was replenished, and the cowboys reboarded the caboose. Their conversation resumed right where it had left off. In fact, the liberal ingestion of liquid spirits had probably deteriorated its tone.

“Maybe you WOULD vote for a yella dog before you’d vote fer a Republican, Bill. But dang it, you look smarter than that. Democrats ain’t all bad. Truman was OK. He sure showed the Japs where the bear took a dump in the brush. Takes a lot of guts to pull the plug on one of them A bombs. Ike was just the best man that’s all. Personally, I’d vote fer a monkey before I’d vote fer a %$#& lawyer. ‘ats the trouble with you Bear Paw boys ... never learn to use yer heads.”

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Bill had his can full.

“By cripes I’ll walk to St. Paul before I’ll ride with a gang o’ narrow minded %$#@ Republicans,” Bill slurred, and out the back door of the caboose he staggered. Down the railroad tracks he tripped, whippin’ himself down his hind leg with his hat and mutterin’ under his breath.

I’m sure it’s possible to walk from Minot to St. Paul. It’s probably been done in the past, but it’ll take a long time to get there headed down the tracks to the west like Bill was. The boys figured out a couple of things. They had to get Bill back on the train, and they didn’t have much time.

Harry Olson tore out of the train after him. He finally got him stopped and turned around, but it took some mighty tall talkin’ to get him back on the caboose. They’d nearly missed the train, and had barely gotten back aboard when it creaked out of the Minot siding and resumed the trip to the stockyards in St. Paul.

Many hours without sleep and the several gallons of missing whiskey resulted in the entire crew being dead to the world in their bunks by the time the train regained the main line. When they awoke in Minnesota, they had cattle to sell and all was forgotten and forgiven ... well, almost.

“I still don’t like Ike,” Bill muttered under his breath.

I wonder if he EVER voted for a Republican?

Keep Smilin’….and don’t forget to check yer cinch.

Ken Overcast is a recording cowboy singer that ranches on Lodge Creek in North Central Montana where he raises and dispenses B.S. http://www.kenovercast.com