One of the first decisions his committee would have to make involved the application of an enthusiastic group who wanted permission to carve the whole front side of Beaver Mountain with likenesses of Buffalo Bill on his horse and Kit Carson shooting an Indian. Considerable popular support was being generated for the project on the ground that “if the mountains are there, they ought to be put to some use.” Garrett hoped that among the young people of the state he would find support in opposing this, even though he was powerless to remove the cross already in position over Denver.
I sometimes think that in the west we have produced only two serious works of art: the Clovis point engineered with such obvious love by primitive man twelve thousand years ago and that wonderful arch along the waterfront in St. Louis.
The more I study the Clovis point, the more convinced I become that it was brought into being by a true artist. His basic job was predetermined by practicality, but in its final stages it was executed with love. It is perfectly obvious that the point could have been left rougher and still been capable of killing a mammoth. But the maker went beyond that requirement and made it a work of art as well. The Clovis is as graceful as a butterfly wing, as lethal as a Thompson machine gun. Those first men set high standards for those of us who follow, and only rarely do we attain their level.
That arch in St. Louis does. It is appropriate that it stand as the gateway to the west. Many of my ancestors debarked at that spot on their way to Colorado—Levi Zendt, Lisette Pasquinel, Major Percy, Frank Skimmerhorn—and the arch represents the spiritual forces that impelled them.
I can’t conceive how the city of St. Louis had either the imagination or the determination to erect such a monument. It’s perfect. A soaring symbol of the best in American life, and I suppose if it had been put to a popular vote, it would have been defeated on the grounds, “Who needs an arch?”
All of us need an arch. We need symbols that are bigger than we are. We need emotional reminders of who we are and what we represent. I hope to God our committee can come up with something for 1976 that will recall our simple past ... the tread of feet across the prairie.
During this November of 1973 the nation was in sad disarray. Watergate, gasoline rationing, a crumbling Atlantic alliance, confrontation with the Arabs and a runaway inflation with wheat at $5.78 a bushel as a result of the mismanaged deal with Russia created a sense of lost direction. In no part of government was the chaos more apparent than in the commission responsible for planning the nation’s bicentennial. So inept was the leadership from Washington that it seemed America was afraid to celebrate its birthday lest citizens gather in the street; only the energy and enthusiasm of certain state leaders could save the anniversary, and no one had a more imaginative proposal than Paul Garrett, chairman of the Colorado commission.
What is our nation’s principal contribution to world art?” he asked his committee when it met on the afternoon of November 13. “The motion picture. And what kind of movies do we make better than anyone else? The mythical western.” And he proceeded to unfold a plan that would cost little and produce much.
“What we’re going to do,” he explained, “is go back in the files and find thirty or forty of our best western films. We’ll arrange a gala festival in every town that has a theater. Charge no more than maybe fifty cents a night. Encourage everyone in the state to see the whole shebang. And we’ll teach more about the spirit of the west than we could in any other way.”
He insisted that his committee join him on a ride north to Cheyenne to see a film which had been highly recommended by French critics. None of the others had even heard of it, but as we sped through the starry night with the prairie opening out on either side, he spoke enthusiastically of what the festival might accomplish.
“I must warn you, I have strong ideas about films. Best heroic western I ever saw was John Wayne in Red River. It was spoiled somewhat by the ridiculous plot which called for Montgomery Clift to whip Wayne in a fist fight, but apart from that, it was a masterpiece.”
He also liked The Covered Wagon and other old-timers which few had seen. It was when he reached the recent movies that he ran into trouble. For example, he wanted to be sure that McCabe and Mrs. Miller ran during the first week to set a standard of honesty for the festival, but two of the committee had seen it and found it to be insulting. “Nothing but whores and cheap grifters,” one complained, to which Garrett replied, “And who did you think populated our first towns?” One of the other members pointed out that John Wayne had objected to the movie most strenuously, on the grounds that it impugned the standard characters of the west, whereupon Garrett said, “We’re honoring Wayne as an actor, not as a critic.”
He especially recommended two Indian pictures which none of the committee had seen. “On these you can trust me. They’re marvelous depictions. Cheyenne Autumn tells about the tribe on its long march north to Fort Robinson and what happened there in 1878. It’ll break your heart. And I do want people to see A Man Called Horse. Wasn’t big at the box office, but it comes closer to Indian life than anything else I’ve seen.”
The committee wanted some preparation for what they were to see in Cheyenne, because Garrett’s sponsorship of McCabe worried them. “Have no fear,” he said. “I’m taking you to a masterpiece.”
And he did. It was Monte Walsh, a low-budget picture starring Lee Marvin, Jack Palance and Jeanne Moreau, and it unfolded with such simplicity, such heart-ripping reality that a strange mood developed. Everyone who had any knowledge of the old west sat transfixed by the memories this film engendered, but those who had known the region only secondhand felt irritated at the wasted evening. Masterpieces are like that; they require an active participation and offer nothing to those who are unwilling to contribute.
Monte Walsh had its principal effect on Paul Garrett; he was bowled over by the integrity of the cowboy played by Marvin and the haunting tragedy of his love for the hanger-on, played by Jeanne Moreau. Garrett was nervous all the way back to Venneford, and on Wednesday morning he said to me, “Damn it all, Vernor, she’s a Chicano, so let’s do it the Chicano way!”
We waited till evening, then rode in to Denver, seeking out a night club that imported a mariachi band from Old Mexico, and he propositioned the leader, who said, “Why not?”—and it was arranged.
The band played at the club till two in the morning, then shared with Garrett the tamale dinner he paid for. They drank some good Mexican beer and at three-thirty piled into the bus he had rented, all fourteen of them.
It was nearly dawn when we reached Centennial, and the driver parked in an area where the bus would attract no attention. Then the mariachis assembled at the railway station, where the leader told Garrett, “It was never this cold in Mexico,” and he assured them, “When you start to play, it’ll warm up.”
No one in town had yet spotted the band, but now the leader gave a signal and with an explosion of sound the mariachis began “La Cucaracha,” the song of the poor little cockroach who couldn’t negotiate very well because he had no more marijuana to smoke.
Lights went on in all the streets leading off Prairie as the mariachis marched north, then turned east on Mountain, where they played the ear-shattering “La Bamba” and then “La Negra.” By the time they reached Third Street two members of the police force were running after them.
“It’s all right,” Garrett assured them. “Just listen.”
The mariachis had now reached Flor de Méjico, and under Garrett’s direction they formed a large semicircle and launched into “Las Mañanitas,” the birthday song. They played half the stanza without voices, then six of the players blended harmoniously in that most gracious and tender song:
“This is the birthday song
Sung by King David.
Because this is your day,
I sing it to you.
There were four verses to the song, and the men sang with such delight that it seemed a true serenade from a man to the woman he loved. When it was finish
ed, Garrett signaled to the conductor, who beat twice with his right arm, and the mariachis began their gentle rendition of “Dos Arbolitos.” A light appeared in an upper window and Flor Marquez looked down.
“What goes on here?” the reporter from the Clarion asked, for by now the noisy musicians had half the town awake.
“I’m serenading the girl I’m going to marry,” Garrett replied.
“Is that an announcement?” the newsman asked excitedly.
“Ask her.”
So the reporter went to a spot beneath the window and asked, “Can I report that you and Mr. Garrett are getting married?” Flor had tears in her eyes, for women are not often serenaded by a band of fourteen, but she replied in that lovely phrase of Chicano insolence, “Si, ¿como no?”
On Thursday morning, November 15, Garrett met with some ranchers from the northeastern comer of the state, who wanted to discuss range management, and after he left them he reflected upon the regrettable sheep wars that had marred the area at the beginning of this century. Many lives had been lost defending the theory that where a sheep had trod, no cow would graze, but today most of the cattlemen occupying land that used to belong to the Venneford Ranch ran cattle and sheep side by side, and each prospered.
Take Hermann Spengler, for example. His grandfather Otto had killed a sheepman in 1889 and no jury in the area could be found to convict him, because of the general opinion that death by gunfire was too good for any man who would bring sheep onto the open range. Today Spengler ran seven hundred Herefords and two thousand sheep. They grazed together on the same fields and complemented each other nicely, the coarse manure of the cattle blending with the more concentrated manure of the sheep to keep the grama grass flourishing.
Even so, one amusing custom still operated throughout the district. A man might run five thousand sheep, but if he had even six steers, he called himself a cattleman, and in all the area around Centennial, there were thousands of sheep but no sheepman. That was a name of opprobrium that no prudent man would take upon himself.
As noon approached, Paul Garrett began to feel uneasy, for this was the third Thursday of the month, and on this day the cattlemen of the region convened at the Railway Arms for lunch in the old-style upstairs dining room. They called themselves the Sirloin Club, and they met in close-knit grandeur, the last of their breed. Czar Wendell would be there, and Hermann Spengler and Dade Commager; and young Skimmerhorn, who ran a big herd of French Charolais. I would be an invited guest.
The room we met in was decorated with photographs of the historic figures of the region: Earl Venneford of Wye, looking natty in his Scottish tweed, had been photographed at the railway station; Oliver Seccombe was seated in his carriage on an inspection tour of Line Camp Four among the pines; the Pettis boys had been photographed in rocking chairs on the veranda of the hotel; and Otto Spengler stood with legs apart, hefting a double-barreled shotgun. One of the finest pictures showed R. J. Poteet fording the Platte River with Nate Person riding behind. This was a room dedicated to cattlemen, and soon the hotel would be torn down, since modern travelers preferred antiseptic motels at the edge of town.
Paul Garrett had never been wholly accepted by the Sirloin Club, since one of his ancestors had been responsible for introducing sheep into the area, and regardless of Paul’s lifelong devotion to Herefords, the contaminating smell could never be completely removed. Now that his engagement to a Chicano was known, the time-honored antipathies against Mexicans might be revived, and he was apprehensive about his reception.
He need not have been. When he entered the room the cattlemen cheered and Dade Commager embraced him, slapping him on the back and proposing a toast. “To Paul, who’s doing what should have been done years ago.” Morgan Wendell, having satisfied himself that Garrett’s marriage to a Chicano would be highly popular in Denver and the southwest portions of the state, proposed a toast of his own: “To Paul Garrett, public servant extraordinary.” And all joined in.
Now the ritual began. At twelve-fifteen on the dot we took our places at three oilcloth-covered tables, and tumblers of ditch—bar bourbon and Platte water—were circulated. Wendell raised his glass and cried, “Gentlemen, to the open range!” All drank, and Hermann Spengler proposed, “To the Hereford.”
Waiters now came in with large baskets of French fried potatoes, which they emptied onto the middle of each table, forming golden pyramids, over which they sprinkled handfuls of salt. The doors swung open and the waiters reappeared with huge trays. Before each of us they placed a sizzling platter containing nothing but a monstrous sirloin cut from some super-steer at the Brumbaugh feed lots.
Steak and potatoes, the food of real men. Hands reached into the golden stacks to grab potatoes, and knives cut into tender steak. For the first few minutes there was not much talk, then Wendell recalled the time the club had entertained a senator from Rhode Island. The members had been most attentive to him, for on a matter of vital concern he held the crucial vote, and things looked promising until the sirloins were served. In a quiet voice he had asked, “Could I have some catsup?”
There was a ghastly silence. To these men, putting catsup on a sirloin was like dumping cigarette ashes in holy water. No one knew what to say, but everyone was adamant that no bottle of catsup would disgrace that table, even if the supplicant was a senator commanding a vital vote. The impasse had been broken by Wendell’s father, a steely-eyed man: “Senator, as you know, your vote is crucial to us, and there is nothing in the world we would not do for you. I think we’ve given you ample proof of that. But I would rather see horse piss sprinkled over my steak that see this table profaned by a bottle of catsup. No, Senator, you may not have catsup.”
“How’d he vote?”
“He was a good sport. Never allowed the bill out of committee.”
Now the steaks were gone, and one of the ranchers turned to Garrett with an embarrassing question: “They tell me, Paul, you’re thinkin’ of meddlin’ with your Herefords. Believe me, don’t do it.”
“Haven’t made up my mind,” Garrett said. Of the eighteen men at the tables, sixteen ran Herefords, and any defection by a rancher as important as Paul Garrett would have serious consequences for them, for if word got around that Crown Vee was dissatisfied with its white-faces, the whole market might become unsettled.
The waiters reappeared with coffee and apple pie, and as the meal ended, Hermann Spengler gripped Garrett by the shoulder, saying, “I’d be honored, Paul, if I could attend the wedding.” Others, hearing this remark, expressed a similar interest, so Garrett said, “We’re being married tomorrow at two ... in her father’s restaurant.”
“We’ll be there,” the ranchers promised.
The next day we all gathered in Flor de Méjico as Father Vigil, now an old man speaking in a whisper, conducted the service. When Garrett placed the ring on Flor’s finger he felt a surge of tenderness for his beautiful bride, and at the end of the ceremony he embraced Manolo Marquez, thanking him for having raised such a splendid daughter.
I did not see either Paul or Flor over the weekend, for they had gone to Line Camp Four on their honeymoon, but on Saturday he telephoned me with a startling piece of news.
“Vernor? Have you heard the decision in the Floyd Calendar case?” His voice was agitated and he was obviously furious.
“Did the jury find him guilty?” I asked.
“They acquitted him on every major count,” Garrett stormed. “The law of the west. ‘No man is guilty of anything, unless he’s an Indian.’ But guess what they did find him guilty of?”
I had had no experience with western juries and offered no opinion, so Garrett continued: “Operating a zoo without a license. He’d held his bears in cages for periods of more than thirty days.” He uttered a string of profanities, then added, “Now guess what his fine was. For killing four hundred and thirteen bald eagles, two hundred bears wired for sound and eighty-one of my turkeys ... a fine of fifty dollars.”
“Go back to your honeym
oon,” I told him. Laughing, he hung up.
Late that afternoon he must have turned on his television, for when he returned to town he handed me a tape which he especially wanted me to hear:
When President Nixon started to speak to the newspaper editors I was much encouraged, and told Flor, “Great! Just what he ought to be doing. If he’d explained all this six months ago, we’d have had no Watergate.” But then I heard him say to the American public, “The people have to know whether their President is a crook. Well, I’m not a crook. I’ve earned everything I have got.” I felt sick. How undignified. How damned awful. I snapped off the television and sat with my head in my hands. My world seemed to be coming apart. Shortage of gasoline. Rampant inflation. Plants in Denver closing down for lack of raw materials. Spiro Agnew, a man I had trusted, kicked out because of his own misbehavior. And now my President proclaiming that he was not a crook.
I told Flor, “No man should ever find it necessary to make such a statement in public. It’s like a doctor assuring everyone in Centennial that he doesn’t give his patients strychnine. Who in hell said he did? A President of the United States buttonholing a bunch of editors and telling them, ‘I’m not a crook.’ Who said he was?” And Flor said, “You must admit he started the rumor.”
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