Buckaroo Country

Hang'n out in the cabin this winter, pack'n wood in and ashes out, brings to mind another winter the logg'n was shut down there in Eastern Oregon. Mills were full. Loggers were always too good at what they did. We were living at the ol' Mount Emily logg'n camp.

Our neighbor Bud Woodard and family has a corral pole operation, him and his two boys. He had an old Peterbuilt short logger and a pup trailer that hauled 1,100 rails. Sold'em to the big cattle ranches in Nevada near the Oregon state line.

"Come along with me," sez Bud. "See'n is how yer bored to tears." 

Had I known whad' happen, I'd stayed bored to tears.

The old Peterbuilt just hummed along all the way to the little cowboy town called McDermitt.

Anyway, we rolled in way after dark. The only rooms were up over the bar. We paid our dues, had a bite to eat and hit the hay. 

Sometime during the night, gun shots blew me out of dream land. I thinks must be those cowboys and Indians we left at the bar. There's a reservation near there don't ya see. 

I leaped out of bed, mashed myself against the wall think'n probably safer here. But the more I thought about it, by the time the bullet gets through the floor maybe the mattress was safer. So I jumped back on the bed. 

Tweren't long and I hear John Laws siren. At the bar there commenced a lot of yell'n and cuss'n. Sounded like the deputy knew the ya--hoos and maybe wasn't the first time this happened.

Things went from be'n real western to quieting down soon. Some time later everybody figured out weren't no bloodshed so we laid around till daylight. Glad to be on our way. We soon got rid of our load and headed home.

It's different down there where the backaroos rope and ride  - and shoot up the bar!!