Chapter III: Higher Learning and Other Diversions

By John Richard Jackson, writing as "Thundermug"

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Chapter III of John's 1993 book "Once Around the Thunder Mug," reproduced exactly as he wrote it. See the book's front matter for the full note on how this text is transcribed.

Higher Learning and Other Diversions

The rabbit's-hole riddle below is the same story John also tells, in slightly different words, in "Echoes from the Thundermug," "The Magic Age Is Five" — there credited to "Uncle Art" (with "Uncle Woodie" also named) and recited to Miss Marie Birdsey rather than Christine Duncan. Both versions are reproduced in full, as printed.

Due to the moonshiners, teamsters, prospectors and uncles we were well prepared for school.

Joel Thomas had received many instructions from many sources and Uncle Arthur recited a riddle for Joey he was sure would be a hit with students and teacher. When the school routine had been fairly well established Joey raised his hand one day and told Christine Duncan, grade school teacher, he had a riddle. Christine said, "very well, Joel, we have a little time, what is your riddle?"

Joey hesitated a few seconds to get everything straight in his mind then piped up, "what is the best way to find a rabbit's hole?" Christine asked the class, "do any of you know the best way to find a rabbit's hole?" None answered. "No Joel, we don't know, please tell us." "Just lift up his tail," Joey giggled. As the rest of the class tittered behind geography books Miss Duncan erased the riddle from Joey's memory bank.

When I entered school we had the Duncan sisters, Christine and Marie, who had come from Missouri to make scholars of the sons and daughters of miners. We had Hazel Lewis, daughter of W. S. and Mrs. Lewis who owned a grocery store in Creede and were pioneers of a sort and we had Arthur Bogue as principal. They demanded the best from us in all departments and they were backed up with paddles and quirt to guarantee attention and obedience.

I would have performed much better if Cousin Lee Davis had influenced me less though I probably wouldn't have learned the rhyme "The Village Blacksmith" forwards and backwards if he hadn't talked me into an unscheduled day off from my studies. Another time when he could have saved me a licking he was right beside me offering advice and the use of his material.

We were molding puppets under the tutelage of Miss Hazel Lewis. The little girls were ecstatic, most of the boys were applying themselves and taking up much of Miss Lewis' time as Lee and I took our production to the far end of the table where we could decide if we really wanted to be a part of such a silly, sissyish undertaking. As we discussed the situation I began molding a figure that began to look more and more like Principal Bogue. The farther it progressed the more Lee liked it and when I came to the reproductive organs we had gathered the attention of Adrian and Bernard. I was carefully shaping the testicles when a foreboding hush drifted over the group and I could sense Miss Lewis' presence.

The least old Lee could have done, as the quirt was drawing dust from my trousers, was save my work of art, however, as soon as she was through with me the sculpture of Mr. Bogue was consigned to her wastebasket. Through my tears I could see cousin Lee, hunched over, working on something I suspected would be his entry in the puppet show.

Lee Davis and I were perched on the top rail of Witt Thomas' corral watching his white mare rustle the last of the hay Witt had thrown out before hitching up his team and leaving for work in Dry Gulch. We were going to ride the mare now that the coast was clear and all we needed was a bridle. We were working on that when the mare began making funny noises and walking in a circle. Something strange was going on here and we were totally unprepared for the next act. The old mare suddenly flopped to the ground with her belly heaving and her head beating a pile of manure. On her side, with her legs toward us, we soon saw the cause of her agony; her guts were coming out her rear.

We tumbled off the poles and ran the short distance to where Grandma Lane was working the dirt from a pair of overalls on a wash-board hooked over a galvanized tub. "Grandma, Grandma," we yelled, "Witt Thomas' horse is dying and all her guts are coming out."

Grandma wasted no time in an emergency and she knew by the tone of our voices this was approaching a catastrophe. She wiped the soap off her hands on her apron as she was following us and peered between poles to assess the situation before taking another route through Witt's barn. She was too late. We were back on our first perch and we could see all the guts were out and the horse was nearly gone by the time Gram reached her.

We couldn't believe it. Grandma was on her knees jerking at those entrails and uncovered what looked like the nose of a colt. She wiped it off with her apron and jerked its tongue out just as the mare struggled around and began licking it. Grandma Lane, who had served as midwife to most of the mothers in Creede had performed another miracle.

We watched as the white mare cleaned her offspring thoroughly and coaxed it to a wobbly, standing position where it could find milk. The birth of Witt's colt had posed more questions than it answered but by this time Gram was back, hunched over the washboard, and we knew we would have to wait for Granddad or Mr. Thomas to provide the answers.

Mom Jo tried but she could never convince us there were real benefits in attending church. I wasn't comfortable in church and I wasn't comfortable in many houses for the same reasons.

Old houses with small windows and curtains that held out light were for old people with rheumatism and poor eyesight. Such houses and occupants demanded silence on entering, leaving and in between.

I never entered a church that I didn't expect to see an open coffin on a bier by the dais with the waxlike nose of a waxlike face sticking up just high enough to be visible to a small boy. The sanctity frightened me and the stern-faced old ladies who glared at me when I rustled a hymnal or blew my nose loudly made me want to run for the nearest place the sun could find me and yell "hallelujah." My idea of a place of worship was a room with wide, tall windows where rays of the sun could chase each other from side to side, and, if I saw my pal Benjie on the other side, I could wave and speak to him.

A new minister with a large family moved to Creede from an eastern Colorado town. We were encouraged to make them feel at home and attend Church to assure them we weren't all heathens. We tried. One of the boys was my age, sturdy and rough around the edges. I learned, from him, all it took to be one of the congregation was to give up two hours a week, sit very piously on a hard bench for half that time and stand with head bowed the other half; then you could chase frogs in the slimy pond at the lower end of town, tin can a dog or smoke Bull Durham tobacco behind somebody's shed.

The Bible class scene that follows — the minister asking each child to describe Heaven — is the same story John also tells, in slightly different words, in "Echoes from the Thundermug," "Going to Church Just Never Was John's Idea of Heaven." Both versions are reproduced in full, as printed.

We were enrolled in what could be called a Bible class for which we were excused from school early on Fridays. The only trouble was we had an hour of Bible class which actually deprived us of a half hour's free time. We went for it anyway. There were usually more whippings that last half hour of school per week when the teachers were grumpy than all the other days combined.

I can't remember how many classes I endured but I well remember the last one. We were seated in a half circle before the minister, who had just completed his lesson for the day, when he rose like someone had thumbtacked his chair, pointed his arms at the ceiling and exclaimed, "today we are going to do something different, something we can all join in." I pictured games of spin the bottle or pin the tail on the donkey. He continued, "today we will describe what we think Heaven is like and why we want to go there."

Norma looked at me and giggled. "For Pete's sake" I thought, "I'm only 9 years old and this old buzzard thinks I want to go to Heaven, already."

"We will start with Jimmy, there on the end, if you will, Jimmy, tell us what you think Heaven is like." Jimmy stammered through his version of the Promised Land where you didn't have to go to school or eat carrots or spinach and you never got a whipping. My turn was next and I added the .22 rifle so we could hunt rabbits. Norma was sure there would be chocolate cake and ice cream every day and David added the horses and saddles and bridles we would need to round up the Lord's cattle.

Then we came to little Ellie, the preacher's daughter, who had been squirming for 30 minutes, tipping her head back with her large, blue eyes focused on the pearly gates trying to remember all she had been coached to tell. Her enthusiasm got the better of her and she started off with the streets of "solid gold and silver."

Her father squirmed. She recovered, "and where everything is green and flowers bloom every day."

He caught her eye and smiled. "And no one gets sick anymore and we love our neighbors." The preacher was beaming and nodding approval. "And...and," "yes, yes, go on Ellie." "And all the bushes are loaded with jelly beans and all the springs run soda pop." We were promptly excused.

Soft Boys, Home Runs and Boogers

Two stories in this section — Teddy's home run and Miss Gortney's arrival at the ballgame, and Hortense Burton and the winking game and Valentine's Day card — are the same stories John also tells, in slightly different words, in "Echoes from the Thundermug": "Bloomers & Home Runs" and "Big Chief Boogers." Both versions are reproduced in full, as printed.

Girls weren't of much concern to us until we were well along in school. Early on we thought they were just soft boys and in time would mature enough to play baseball or shin hockey and, maybe, even learn to shoot a rifle.

Eloise Blackford, a talented musician and singer, became a part of our lives teaching music and staging musical performances that were well received in the Elk's Hall by proud mothers and fathers. The practice sessions were held in Bryan Beck's theatre on a planked stage that had developed wide cracks over the years as the fresh lumber seasoned.

When rehearsals began, several of us lads who lacked musical aptitude, offered our support from under the stage where we could hang on the floor braces and peer at the young ladies' underclothes as they flitted from side to side, singing and dancing. As could be expected, much dirt and sawdust filtered through the cracks and into our upturned eyes. At the end of the first week our teachers thought they were in the midst of a pink eye epidemic. Our eyeballs looked worse than Shorty Wheeler's at a spud cellar social.

And we had the third and fourth grade teacher, Miss Gortney, who stirred our interest in learning why girls wore different clothes. Miss Gortney liked to watch our ball games on the field paved with nails, broken glass and rusting cans. She was a pretty blonde and usually came attired in short skirts or print dresses with very little under.

We were all tied up in a torrid game of softball, one evening, with brother Joey pitching for our side. Joey had two out when Teddy came to bat. Teddy had muscles on muscles and directed a fierce scowl at the pitcher's mound that would send a shiver down the devil's back but we knew we had an easy out here. Ol' Teddy was muscle-bound and swung the bat like he was chopping wood. All Joey had to do was whip three fast balls by him and their side would be retired. Just as brother Joey began his contortions signaling the start of his famous underhand fireball, Miss Gortney sat down between Edna Ruth Van Aken and Elsie Duncan and spread her skirt with her knees. From my position at shortstop, I could see Joey's eyes had been diverted from the batter and the smoking ball was following his line of vision. There was an audible plock as it glanced off the east pole of the backstop and ended its flight square on the nose of Elsie Duncan, toppling her backwards with broken cartilage and a gush of blood.

There was a pause in the game as Elsie was carted off. Teddy resumed his batting stance and brother Joey, somewhat shaken, elected to pitch a slow ball over the plate hoping for nothing more than a grounder with an easy out at first. I didn't hear the crack of the bat and was only faintly aware of a ball zipping between my legs as Miss Gortney had shifted positions to face me squarely. My devotion to game and teammates was lost in a lurid impression, indelibly impressed, on the rear of my eyeballs. We lost the game to Teddy's first home run ever.

There is an unwritten law of physics and anatomy we are made aware of in high school. The ugly duckling of third grade will always end up being the shapeliest beauty in school in her sophomore year.

Hortense Burton sat across the aisle from me in grammar school in a long sleeved dress, cotton stockings hanging in rolls around her ankles and her nose always sporting a booger that would lower and rise with each breath she took. She held her pencil near the point with the remainder of it waving above her hand like a baton as she wrote. Occasionally gravity overcame her powers of inhalation and the booger dropped to her Big Chief tablet where she would sop it up with a sleeve then steal quick glances to see if anyone noticed. To avoid mutual embarrassment we all looked away at the proper time.

At a birthday party of one of our class we had gathered in a circle, boys on the outside and girls seated on the inside, playing musical chairs. The boy behind one empty chair winked at the girl he wanted to sit there and if the boy behind her didn't tap her lightly on the head she was free to move. The game would continue until a fistfight occurred or none of the boys would wink at a girl. I was never able to wink, all I could do was blink fast. My girl was sitting by Hortense and I had the empty chair. I let my eyes wander around the circle then pivoted back and directed a blink at where I thought Doris was sitting. My sixth sense deceived me and Hortense was in my chair like a bullet. She was there for the remainder of the game and, by the rules, became my partner for the evening.

Hortense always helped the teacher pass out valentines. She was chosen for this special chore because she never received a valentine from a boy and the teacher could slip a few in from "I love you, guess who" or "a secret admirer" as she made her runs to other students. On this St. Valentine's Day little Hortense was racing around the room with the heart shaped cards when the teacher announced, "to Hortense from Johnny Jackson," then tittered "oh, I'm sorry, I'm not supposed to read who the cards are from." Hortense vaulted 12 feet to snatch the card as I rose to protest. The teacher rested one hand on her paddle and looked me, very sternly, in the eye.

Bernie snickered in the seat behind me and Wallace made a heart with his fingers then pointed at Hortense and me. As soon as the teacher had her hand in the valentine box and her sharp eyes diverted I dropped my pencil on the floor. In retrieving it I, also, poured a half bottle of blue-black ink behind the tongue of Bernie's left shoe. Wallace would get his at recess.

Hortense developed and matured miraculously by age 14 and would have nothing to do with me. My only consolation was, she still had problems with boogers.

The Heroics of Brother Joel

For the depression kids the athletic field of Mineral County Consolidated Schools consisted of the vacant lots where the present institution of learning resides. The field had seen several houses burned in one of Creede's disastrous fires leaving the ground generously endowed with shards of glass, rusted tin and nails of every description. Only little better was the long barn like structure by the railroad tracks called the Derrick Hall that served as our gymnasium. A few minutes of basketball practice in the Derrick Hall transformed us into likely candidates for the march in Selma, accumulations of dust and soot, once stirred up, took several hours to settle.

In the thirties we played softball on the field and when we could round up enough players for two teams we alternated with games of touch football. We had only a vague inkling of the rudiments of the sport and our teams consisted of linemen and fullbacks. The fullback could either run with the ball or pass and every lineman was an eligible receiver.

Martin N. B. Holm was the grade school principal for a portion of this time and loved to join us at touch football. We were never overly charitable with Mr. Holm but there was no way we could stop him from doffing his suit coat and tie to take up the fullback position on one of the teams, with his knees pumping up and down like pistons of a two cycle engine Mr. Holm could outrun any of us and on the rare occasion when one of us did intercept him a stiff arm would send us flying as he went merrily on his way for a touchdown.

One bright day we had suffered through two fast touchdowns by Mr. Holm and he was fullbacking his way to a third. It was nearly time for the one o'clock bell to sound as he clapped for the ball. Ted Bucher snapped the ball to Mr. Holm and he veered to the left as if to pass then abruptly turned and started running around the right end. Most of us were completely taken in by this fake but not Brother Joe who was now speeding on a collision course with Martin N. B. Holm. The rest of us were watching and waiting for the stiff arm that would roll brother Joe in the turf as Mr. Holm raced to his third touchdown, but lo and behold Brother Joe slipped under the stiff arm, clasped Mr. Holm just above the knees, and in a tremendous cloud of dust foiled the play.

Brother Joe was the first to regain his feet, struggling out of the haze his hands looked like they had gone through a meat grinder and his clothes were ready for the washtub and several hours of patchwork. Barely visible in the pushed up dirt, ashes, glass and nails groaned the remains of Mr. Martin N. B. Holm, a trickle of blood emerged from where his glasses had once rested on his nose, his starched white shirt was in tatters and, when he rose high enough, we could see two raw knees through holes in his suit pants. With a look at Brother Joe that would have melted an iceberg and an audible sigh Mr. Holm retrieved his coat and tie, turned slowly to see if anyone was snickering, then painfully made his way to the schoolhouse never again to carry a pigskin on the athletic field of Mineral County Consolidated Schools.

We were fated to join the riff raff of urban Creede. Dad Bill bought the Gish house for $500.00 including six lots and we bid farewell to the mesa elite. The families, Dooley, Leary, Webber, Major, Comstock, Barnhart, Shillings, Snow, Oates, Davis, Duncan, Shaw and Barnett would miss us and we would certainly miss them as we changed our allegiance to an alien country and joined forces with our former enemy.

The duck-hunting story below — Walter Workman, the shot-up cap at "The Kansas Club," and Walter's death on Iwo Jima — is also told, in slightly different words, in "Echoes from the Thundermug," "A White Cross on Iwo Jima." Both versions are reproduced here in full, as printed.

The Workman family owned nearly a block just north of us and we became fast friends with James and Roger, Tom Workman's sons. Dollie Workman lived just to the west of Tom with her children, Dorothy, Harold and Walter. Walter, Scooter and I teamed up to keep the duck population of Mineral County under control. I had saved a total of $7.00 to buy a Montgomery Ward single shot 12 gauge shotgun that was deadly both in reverse and forward. Walt had a 10 gauge that was a menace to everything including low flying aircraft while Scooter used a 12 gauge double-barrel that flew apart with each concussion. Walter's uncle had once fired the 10 gauge with the barrel full of snow. The barrel hadn't split but it had a noticeable bulge behind the front sight.

We had rousted ducks from both Seepage lakes on one hunting trip and were bagging stragglers along the creek leading to what was called "The Kansas Club" on a sweeping bend of the Rio Grande. As we passed the first cabin the call of nature detoured Walter to an outside biffy where an entrance door was equipped with a genuine door latch complete with glass knobs.

Before entering the weathered structure he stood the old 10 gauge against a barbed wire fence nearby and hung his cap over a post. The chauffeur-like, black cap was a favorite of Walt's. He wore it to everything but evening meals and constantly shined the visor.

For no good reason I can think of, at this late date, I retrieved Walt's shotgun, stepped back several paces, and riddled his cap with #4 chilled shot. Needless to say, the blast scared the hell out of Walter along with more tangible things and contributed to a short reign on the throne.

On emerging and surveying the remains of his favorite cap, he grabbed my red checkered hunting cap, hung it on the outside white knob of the door and promptly blew it to smithereens, leaving a gaping, smoking hole where the latch had once served so efficiently.

Another time when Walter became perturbed with me for a lesser crime, he advised me he was going to knock my teeth down my throat. I didn't believe him until I coughed up a couple and spit them out through bloody lips.

Our friend, Walter M. Workman, lost his life on the beaches of Iwo Jima but his memory will always be with us.

The Trials of Minnie Pearl

The runaway-mule-cars incident later in this story is also told, in slightly different words, in "Echoes from the Thundermug," "Minnie Pearl Was a Smart Mining Mule." Both versions are reproduced here in full, as printed.

The worst possible thing that could happen to "our gang" began creeping into our midst in the late '30's. We discovered girls; or, perhaps, they discovered us. I'm not sure how the infestation started but it was a lingering illness that robbed us of everything good and wholesome, heretofore, in our lives. We could no longer muster enough players for a shin hockey game or a burro ride over the hill to Rat Creek to fish. With cars being the prime lure for girls sprouting curves our older members were hard pressed for gas money and began taking jobs where available. Both the town of Creede and Mineral County offered summer employment and ranchers always needed an extra hand.

I worked two summers for Mineral County then joined the crew renovating Commodore #5 tunnel. It was steady work and Dad Bill was the foreman so I figured there would be a few more benefits. I figured wrong; when you're the son of the boss you are expected to give a little extra each shift.

It was a short crew and we alternated in many and varied jobs. A mule named Minnie Pearl, two hands too high for the Amethyst tunnel had been moved down for use in the much larger Commodore tunnel. She was in the care of Bernie Soward who grew to love the gentle gal who would pull two loaded trains from the tunnel before lunch and one train after. Bernie fed her an extra ration of rolled oats on particularly hard days.

Harry and Gene McClure, brothers, worked part-time leasing a block of ground with a narrow silver-lead vein just above the tunnel level and part-time on development jobs. Gene, John Slater and I had just spent two days underground hand drilling and blasting to widen an area to accommodate larger tunnel cars and were moved back in the sunshine to crib up the waste dump and place stringers to move rail in a new location.

Gene was full of the old mick. He once spiked John Slater's pants cuff to a log and John took a real header when he went to step away. On this day we were placing a stringer when he saw Minnie Pearl clearing the portal with Bernie hunched upon a little metal step on the lead car unscrewing the bowl of his carbide lamp. Gene raced to the mule barn and before Minnie, Bernie and six tunnel cars passed the first switch he had scooped up half a coffee can of rolled oats and was waving it at Minnie Pearl from the barn door as he gave a low whistle.

Minnie Pearl was a dedicated worker and devoted to her master, Bernie Soward, but she knew that can contained rolled oats, it was near noon, and Gene had tempted her beyond limits of her control. She stepped from the tracks, overturned three cars, and was pawing for all she was worth as the combined weight brought her to a halt. Bernie had turned around in time to see her veer and jumped clear before the lead car overturned.

Bernie was a big and powerful man and Gene hadn't fully realized the consequences of his act until the cars started overturning. He was all hands helping Bernie unhitch his mule so we could begin cleaning up. Bernie hadn't seen Gene wave the grain can and he hadn't heard the whistle but he suspected foul play and he suspected Eugene McClure was involved.

It took several days for the air to clear between Bernie and Gene. Gene was on his best behavior and helped both Minnie and Bernie at every opportunity. The Elks lodge had a dance scheduled for the next Saturday night where disputes were sometimes settled in soft turf behind Major's store and Gene wanted Bernie to be sure there was no valid reason to spill blood, especially his blood.

Fox Trots and High Heels

Jukeboxes had come to Creede several years before and were serviced by a fellow in Del Norte. One of our gang had found he could place tape over a nickel in the slot and charge the player for as many as 20 songs before the tape would jam the slot. Because of Earl J's genius many of us learned to dance fox trots and waltzes on a limited budget. Hurtha and James Duncan taught me a few simple steps that I tried out at a school dance but the girls couldn't backtrack as fast as I could forward track and I had problems getting one to dance a second time. Brother Joey and Mom Jo then took over and patiently taught me a better and easier form of sliding my soles.

I was madly in love with a girl named Anne who had matured in all the right places. I dreamed of dancing with her and holding her close enough so that the foremost maturity would dimple both pockets of my starched white shirt.

I was, again, working with Gene McClure and John Slater and John was very much interested in my love life. Periodically he would ask me if I needed any help in learning about the anatomy of females. I declined his offer. We worked Saturdays, and the dance, mentioned above, would be this Saturday night. John assured me he and Lena would be there and he wanted to see me trip the light fantastic with my best girl.

I was there and I danced with Anne. I danced poorly and I was afraid to hold her close enough to dimple my shirt but the important thing was I had finally scattered footprints on a real dance floor before a real dance band. I couldn't wait to get to the mine on Monday. When we gathered our tools and were deep inside the hole drilling uppers with a single jack and short steel I asked John if he had seen me at the dance. "Yeah," he replied, "I saw you stepping all over that little girl's feet, you looked about as graceful as a cub bear playing with his peter."

I didn't dance well and I wasn't graceful but I didn't fare as badly as another member of our crew.

Mac hadn't been married long and was fairly kicking up his heels with old classmates coupled with several trips to the bar to replenish his energy. He didn't neglect his young wife but he became so wrapped up in socializing the time just flew by and he barely made the "Goodnight Ladies" final waltz with his love.

Underground I hadn't noticed anything unusual about Mac's face but when we were sent out to drill and blast outcroppings where Charles Johnson's new ore bin was to be constructed I thought he looked a little peculiar above the eyes. I had unscrewed the plug on the oiler to the jackhammer and, as Mac passed me the oil bottle, I noticed little red knots on his forehead and into the hairline at a higher level.

It took several days for the story to come out, in bits and pieces, at the urging of Bernie. We learned his wife managed to get him home and in bed with no problems until the bed began rotating at a furious pace. Mac dropped his left foot to the floor to slow it then realized that his liquid nourishment of the long night was making plans for evacuation. He crawled to the bedroom window, raised the lower sash, and began retching over the sill.

His bride, still smarting from his behavior at the dance and very much perturbed at this latest development, slammed the window on his neck then went outside and peppered his head with the blunt end of a high heel shoe. I won't embarrass the lady by divulging her name but her initials are "Elizabeth."

Curly Scores a Double

"Ever been to a whorehouse?" "Sure, we go whenever we have the money, don't we Johnny?" "Uh huh." "Where d'ya go?" "Mostly to Mary's, just up from the depot." "Boy, I won't go there again, old Dale got burnt last time we went to Mary's." "Hell he did?" "Yeah, he really got clapped up, his old man found out about it and said the next time he wanted to get his nuts cracked he'd take him to a clean one."

That conversation other than the "uh huh" was between Curly and his cousin from Monte Vista. No matter the circumstances or season when a boy passed 16 years of age if he hadn't been to a whorehouse he just wasn't accepted by his peers. Curly and I hadn't been to a whorehouse but he was a good liar and I backed his stories.

Came the day we had two dollars each for the fee, 75¢ each for gas money, 15¢ each for a hamburger and pop after our initiation and an extra dollar in case of emergency. Henry, several years older and with transportation in the form of a Model A Sedan, promised to drive us over the hill. He had a girlfriend hashing in a cafe he would visit.

I have never been as scared in my life as the moment Curly walked up to the clerk in the hotel and said, "we want a room with girls." The old fellow nearly bit his cigar in two. "What kind of a gawdam place do you think this is?" We were in the wrong hotel. When we found the right establishment and the Madam, Curly, again, stated our wishes. "All my girls are busy now, come back around ten, ten thirty, okay?" I was already on my way out. Curly said, "We have to be back at work in the morning." "Where you boys from?" "We live in Creede." The old gal laughed, "you mean you came over a hundred miles to get a piece of tail? Well, I won't have you going home disappointed, take this key and go up to room 22, I'll be up as soon as I can."

We flipped a coin and Curly was first up to bat. I died at least a dozen times as I waited, torn between the pact we had made and the nearly overpowering urge to get out of there and run the 100 miles home and never show my face again.

Dedication overcame fear. A mental block prevents me from recalling very much of the encounter. I do remember she was much larger than she looked in a dress and corset and I remember a tremendous roll of fat that became the main obstacle in keeping up my end of the bargain.

As I was lacing up my shoes the old veteran reached over and patted me on the butt. "On your way out send that curly haired boy back in here, tell him it won't cost him a thing this time." I didn't relay the message.