Curly’s Fifty Dollar Boots

Curly's Fifty Dollar Boots

© 2004 Ken Overcast

It was the latter part of June back in the 1930's

sometime. Corky Johnson was on the ground crew

at one of the last brandin's of the season. Although

they had their usual share of fun that day, it was also

a little sad in a way. The boys had worked themselves

out of a job. Most of them were going to have to go on

the prowl for gainful employment. Not an easy task

during the Great Depression.

Cowboys have a way of makin' just about anything

fun, though. Corky was holding the hind leg of the very

last calf as Pete Wilson put on the brand. When they let

the critter up, the big steer bounded away, his hind feet

spinnin' through a fresh cow pie. There's a good place

to be when that happens, and where Corky happened

to be.... well that wasn't it. Two big gobs the size of

baseballs caught poor old Corky right smack in the face,

completely filling both eyes. What a mess.

'Always heard you had a crappy outlook on life' Pete

quipped as he lay the irons on the ground beside the

smoldering fire. Corky stumbled around pawing his

face with the back of his hands. 'Looks like it must

be true, ' Pete went on. 'Now we got proof.'

Corky just laughed off his little mishap. He was

always good natured, that boy.

'Well, I dang shore do now' he chuckled. 'What're

you fellas figurin' on doin' now that spring work's over?'

One by one the boys visited about their plans.

'Well, I think I'm gonna head for the Paloose Country

out in Washington,' Corky offered. 'I'm bettin' a fella

could get a job on a threshin' crew. Wheat harvest is

comin' right up. Anybody wanna come along?'

There weren't any takers. The other boys already

had plans. Corky hadn't ever done much other than

cowboy, but he was always up to try something new.

All he owned in the world that amounted to anything

was his Miles City saddle, and the pair of made-to-

measure boots he'd ordered out of that catalogue last

fall. They'd cost him most of his fall wages, but boy

they were dandies.

He bid his goodbyes to the cowboys and stopped

in at Shelby to visit his sister for a couple of days.

Shelby, Montana is just east of the Rocky Mountains.

There's been a fair sized rail yard there ever since Jim

Hill built the Great Northern Railroad back in the 1880's.

Curly left his saddle with Sis for safe keeping, and

throwin' a few essentials in his war bag, hopped in the

open door of a box car just as it rolled out of the rail

yard. It was about ten or eleven o'clock in the evening,

and dark as pitch as he made his way to the end of the

car and curled up for a snooze in the warm summer air.

He hadn't ever ridden a freight train before, and

bein' green to the ways of the rails, Curly made a few

cardinal mistakes. The first one was that he was

wearing his made-to-measure boots. An old hobo

that worked for us years ago told me to NEVER have

anything with you of any value. 'There's guys out there

ridin' the rails that will cut yer throat for a good coat.'

The second mistake he made was in jumping the car

after dark. You can't check out the facilities very well at

night, and there's no telling who or what might be in one

of those cars.

Those were two pretty big mistakes.

The trip up the east side of the Rockies was spent in

sweet dreams, and Curly didn't wake up until the

morning sun began to peak into the open boxcar door.

That's when he discovered that he wasn't alone. There in

the dim morning light, he could make out the form of a

man asleep on the floor at the other end of the car.

'Good,' thought Curly to himself, 'Company.'

It wasn't long until the sleeping man awoke and Curly

found that not all of humanity shared his trusting prairie

ways. His traveling partner proved to be anyone's worst

nightmare. He was a filthy, deranged looking piece of

humanity with the wildest eyes this side of hell.

'Whatcha doin' in my car?' growled the bum.

Curly just flashed him his famous smile, and made

an excuse about it bein' dark when he got on. 'Besides,

it's always nice to have someone to visit with.'

The bum wasn't amused. His dark eyes darted back

and forth, and he muttered a few swear words under

his breath.

'Nice boots,' the bum snarled, pulling a pistol from

under his coat. 'I've always wanted a pair of boots like

that.' For the first time in his life Curly felt real fear grip

his heart.

Curly was awfully fond of those new boots, but he

didn't like them well enough to trade his life for 'em.

The freight car jostled and clicked down the track as

the train picked up speed, rapidly heading down the

west side of the Continental Divide. There was no

escape. The bum had the drop on him, and he had

nowhere to go.

'They're a little small for me anyway,' Curly quipped

nervously, pulling off the boots and tossing them to the

other end of the car. His brain was in overdrive, with

every conceivable thought and possibility crossing his

mind.

The bum pulled on the new boots and shoved his

pants down in the tall tops, all the while keeping a

watchful deranged eye and his cocked pistol leveled

on the cowboy. He stood and looked down at his new

prize, taking a few halting steps. His gait was like that

of a newborn calf. The thief was apparently unaccus-

tomed to the 2 ¼ inch riding heels.

'Think it's time you got off,' the bum snarled

through his curled lips. 'This is my car!' He stretched

the pistol out in front of his body, taking full aim at his

victim. 'Get to the door and get out o' here!'

Curly started easing his way to the door of the

boxcar on his hands and knees, his mind still racing

to think of a solution to the fix he found himself in.

The train was clicking along at sixty or seventy miles

and hour, cruising down the mountain on its way to

the Flathead Valley far below. The floor was smooth

and new; covered with a thin scattering of wheat, the

remains of its last cargo.

'Jump!' the deranged bum commanded as Curly

reached the door. The view out of that boxcar door

would make the devil go pale. At least three or four

hundred feet straight down, Curly could see the

foaming Flathead River, pounding its way through the

granite boulders down the mountain to the valley floor.

He grasped tightly to the door frame, his frightened

eyes silently pleading.

'Jump! This is my car! Jump!' the deranged bum

commanded as he moved closer and closer, his

flashing demonic eyes striking at least as much fear

into Curly's heart as the pistol.

'I'm a goner,' Curly thought to himself, 'but I ain't

gonna jump. He's either going to shoot me or throw

me out.... but I ain't gonna jump.'

'I said jump!' the bum screamed, taking several

wobbly steps toward his victim.

Curly held tightly to the door frame and said a

little prayer under his breath. 'This is it.'

The train was nearing the bottom of the steep

grade, and just then the engineer applied the brakes.

The couplers on the railroad cars began to take up

their slack, and the boxcar jerked violently. The

combination of the riding heels on Curly's boots and

the wheat rolling on the slick new floor under his feet

were too much for the bum. He fell flat on his back

and flew feet first out the boxcar door to his death

hundreds of feet below.

Curly's heart was nearly ready to burst. This was

like a bad dream. He didn't move for several minutes,

waiting for his heart to calm and his composure to

return. Eventually it did, and Curly breathed another

little prayer.

'Thank you, Lord. Boy, that was a close one,'

Curly prayed. He haltingly continued, looking down

at his stockin' feet, 'I prob'ly shouldn't bring this

up.... but Lord.... those boots cost me fifty bucks.'

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.