Low Places on the High Plains

I speak next year in North Platte, Nebraska, to the Little Big Horn Associates annual convention. I look forward to it. Not only am I a proud member of this great group, but North Platte is one of my favorite haunts on earth. Perhaps more so than even Cody, Wyoming, North Platte is Buffalo Bill's town. The pretty little home he built here, "Scout's Rest Ranch," is today a state park nestled in a nook along the river that gave the town its name. In a word, if you are a Wild West historian, North Platte is Nirvana.

A few years ago, one torrid summer's eve, I was in North Platte. Searching for a water hole to cool my hot heels, I first slipped into a saloon called The Depot. Judging by the traffic, it was a popular place. Very quickly, however, I realized that The Depot was not for me. The huge amplifier directly overhead was blaring down some modern noise and the upscale pretension and plastic menu turned me off completely. I had spied another place coming into town and so I saddled and scooted.

From the outside, the Flat Rock Bar looks like one of those dirty, dingy, dismal dives that a "respectable" person might wish to avoid. And in truth, should such a featherless biped take a bet and venture in, their stay would probably be brief. Good. No upscale pretension here. Just a bar up front, a juke box in back, and a pool table smack in the middle. There are no waitresses with plastic smiles and recorded greetings in their heads to seat you; there are no yard-long laminated menus with fizzy names for plain old hamburgers to choose from. No, at the Flat Rock just cold beer and whiskey straight. Entertainment is strictly voluntary. It was a Poor Man's Country Club; a place where the nuts and bolts of North Platte come together a dozen times or more a week to unwind and raise pure hector. It's also a place where if one is not careful what one says one might end up looking like one of the clientele whose front teeth were missing.

But if one minds one's manners, he'll come out alright. I know the folks. The slim and serious fellow at the pool table, the one in the cowboy hat who is chalking slowly and studying each shot as if the entire place was waiting breathlessly-–no one was watching-–this fellow might try to cheat you at a game of eight-ball, but he'd never screw you in a business deal. He might try to steal your wife from you, but he'll make his move right up front, and not through a back door. He is sometimes loud and profane in a drinking establishment like this but face to face with a stranger he is almost painfully civil and polite. Without a second thought he'd stop his pickup on a dead dark road any rainy night of the week and give you a lift after you've ran out of gas. I know the folks here. I was at ease . . . and then some.

Tonight, a Friday night, the rowdy patrons were in high galore. The racket ebbed and flowed but mostly flowed. The snatches of conversations I overheard were the usual: work (too much of it), alimony (not enough of it--"the sonofabitch is late again") and the weekend rodeo. A short, fat Indian woman on her way to the restroom limped by my table on a crutch.

"I thought you was Jesse Ventura," she laughed as she patted me softly on the shoulder.

"I wish I was," said I with a smile.

A strong wind was blowing through the front door carrying the volumes of cigarette smoke out the back door. The juke box was loud, but not noisy, and every word Johnny Horton sang about "Big Sam's" gold and a "gator's bee-hind" could be clearly understood. The friendly old bartender made it over to my table when he could and I made it over to the bar when he couldn't. After three or four such mutual visits, I decided that it was time to pack it up, satisfied that the Corona was as good or better here as at the fancy place.

Now starved, I drove out to Interstate 80 and found something called "Whiskey River." Like the first stop that night, WR was upscale, plastic, insipid. The only memory I have of the place is how far away I had to park, even though there were seemingly dozens of empty "handicapped" spaces right in front. The hobbled Indian lady didn't seem to have any trouble getting in and out of the Flat Rock, even though parking there was strictly catch-as-catch-can.

When I return to North Platte next summer, and after my talk, believe I'll slip on down to the Flat Rock oasis. Like Garth, give me friends in low places any day to the chilly indifference of high places.

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Answer to yesterday's Sagebrush Stumper: sheep.

Fort Laramie

Received an email yesterday from Sandra Lowry of Fort Laramie (WY) National Historic Site. Sandra mentions that the work underway on the Trader's Store for these past several years will be complete and open for touristic business by next summer. Thanks to the aid of the Harper's Ferry Center and the hard work of local staffers, the store will be an uncommonly accurate recreation of the way it was during its heyday in the 19th-Century when settlers, soldiers and scouts bought their supplies. Good for Fort Laramie. Good for history!


Speaking of Ft. Laramie

The above email from Sandra reminds me well that not so very long ago I too was up there in God's Country at Ft. Laramie. For anyone who has not been where the blue Laramie meets the green North Platte . . . Go! For anyone who has been there . . . Go Again! It is a wonderful place. The mountains and prairie remain as they were; there are no subdivision encroachments; there are no roaring interstates nearby; there are no jets landing overhead. There is only scenery, silence . . . and history by the heaps.

Although it was never besieged and burned as were some other forts in Wyoming, it was here at the Laramie "peace" council in 1866 that the great Sioux chief, Red Cloud, dramatically declared war on the United States (Crazy Horse may have won a great battle in Montana, but Red Cloud won a great war in Wyoming--more on that later). It was also from Ft. Laramie that Buffalo Bill, California Joe, "Lonesome" Charley Reynolds, and other scouts made their dangerous sorties into the howling wilderness beyond. Indeed, Laramie is perhaps the most fabled fort in frontier history for it is here where we find the true crossroads of the West. Oregon Trail . . . California Trail . . . Pony Express Trail . . . Bozeman Trail . . . Mormon Trail . . . Black Hills Trail . . . all God's trails, it seems, passed through Ft. Laramie. The national park service has done, as usual, an extremely fine job of restoring and interpreting this "sentinel of the plains" and a person could easily spend a day at the fort and surrounding countryside.

The day I spent there recently was hot as hot can be and I soon paid a visit to the Trader's Store for a cold sarsaparilla. Two young reenactors at the fort happened to be in the store at the time and we quickly engaged in conversation. They were young, bright kids. Both were eager to hear all the history they could. When I told the story of Buffalo Bill's sidekick, Charlie White, both they, the bartender, and some tourists laughed aloud when it was revealed how poor "Chips" got his terrible nickname. I then told an anecdote about the very room we were sitting in.

Nick Janis was one of the craftiest scouts in the West. The legendary Jim Bridger called him "the whitest man on the plains," whatever that meant. When Janis finally retired after risking his scalp on a daily basis for "more tears than dollars," he chose Ft. Laramie to hole up. The old scout spent most of his time loafing about this very same sutler's store telling tall tales and entertaining newcomers with his rustic wit.

One day, a young westering "pilgrim" entered the store and Janis spotted the butt of small Smith & Wesson .22 caliber pistol peeking from his vest.

"What's that?" asked the old man.

Taking out the weapon, the young man handed it to Janis for inspection. After carefully examining the barrel of the tiny piece and eyeing each cylinder closely, the old man at last handed it back with a laugh.

"Boy," said Janis as he stared at the young man, "if you shoot me with dat and I find out, I put you acrost my knee and spank hell outen you!"

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Sagebrush Stumper

During the last half of the 19th-Century more than 15 million of these were driven to Kansas railheads. What were they? (answer in tomorrow's blog)

You Can't Roller Skate (or Bike) Through a Buffalo Herd

A few years ago I was camped at Fort Robinson up in the Pine Ridge country of Nebraska. Each day I was in the habit of taking a long and grueling bike ride up nearby Smiley Canyon. The four or five mile trip up the steep road was hell; the coast back down, of course, was pure heaven.

One day, near the end of the "heaven" part of the trip, I came face to face with a large herd of buffalo spread across the road. Now, these were not the petting zoo variety of buffalo, but buffalo as wild as the West. Since I certainly didn't have enough energy to ride back another four miles up the canyon road and return to the campground via the back door, my only hope home was through the herd.

Dismounting, I walked my bike slowly toward the animals, who thereupon suddenly stopped grazing to stand and stare. As would be the case with domestic cows, I was counting on a few cowards in the herd to bolt, then suck the rest with them at a thundering gallop. This did not work; buffalo are not cows. When the big brown beasts did move it was pretty slowly and as I got closer I noticed a huge bull standing just off the road a bit, away from the rest. He obviously was going no where. Sprinting by on my bike was never an option. I could go maybe 25 MPH tops; an enraged buffalo, so I've read, can charge at 30-35 MPH. The bull would soon catch the bike and its rider and escort the latter into another realm. I began looking for safety nets. I spied one in the shape of a culvert. Should his bullship attack, I would drop the $400 bike and dash into the hole like a mole.

I slowly moved forward until it was decision time. On my side of the invisible line, should the bull charge I felt I could still make it back to the culvert. On the bull's side of the line, it was his call. Tired and hungry, I crept forward. All this while, the bull stood as I had found him, chewing his cud, motionless, a huge black eye following me closely. Finally, as I drew beside the bull, I eased onto my bike and ever so slowly slipped by. He watched me carefully, but moved not a muscle. I was safe.

As I gained speed down the last leg of the canyon road I thought about how proud and strong that bull was; too much so, no doubt, to waste time and energy on a hairless weener like me. But they were all magnificent animals. They were wild, beautiful beasts that we almost wiped out in our greed and stupidity. I had noticed that the restaurant at Fort Robinson offered buffalo burgers and steaks. And I've noticed such stuff on the menus elsewhere. To me, it seems cruel that after bringing them back from the verge of extinction, we should now turn around and again slaughter the buffalo and grind them up so that some city dude can play pioneer or some child can pour ketchup all over them, take a bite, then toss the rest into the garbage. This seems like a crime fully as great as the original one. Buffalo are historic animals. Buffalo are sacred animals. Buffalo are American animals. Buffalo, more than any other creature, symbolize our nation. They have earned, and they deserve, better treatment.

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Answer to yesterday's Sagebrush Stumper: Otoe, for "flat water."

Closer Than You Think

Two days ago I wrote about Mild Bill the Manure Man and the Rock Creek Massacre. In previous posts I have mentioned Wyatt, Doc, Ike and the shoot-out at the OK Corral. In future posts I will talk about Custer, Crazy Horse and the Little Bighorn. When most folks read the gory details about any of the above, and when they get over their shock and horror, a certain disconnection unavoidably sets in. After all, these incidents occurred well over a century ago and to most people anything that happened that far back seems as remote and distant as the Bronze Age. I felt much the same way until a couple of interviews I did a dozen years ago while researching my book, Scalp Dance.

One of the interviews was with a lady in her 95th summer; her Kansas mother (above, seated) had been captured by Indians in 1874. The other meeting was with Agnes Shrader of Topeka; she was 92 at the time and her aunt had suffered the same fate in the same state in the same year. Mrs. Schrader was as lucid and bright in her chat with me as most people half her age. She still lived in her own home and kept it neat and tidy. Indeed, it was immaculate. Mrs. Schrader even walked around the block every day for exercise. Although neither woman knew much about the ordeal of their loved ones, this to me was unimportant. Just sitting and talking to someone who was a single generation removed from the Indian Wars was everything. It was something akin to time travel. Suddenly, after being with these ladies, the accounts of their ancestors, or Wild Bill Hickok, or Wyatt Earp, or the Little Bighorn, was not something from the dark and dead past. It was close, very close . . . and it was real.

For me, from that time forth, history lived!

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Email

I have read two of your books, but reading your non-fiction [blog] is a different experience. You do well. You are a good writer. You certainly know how to put readers at the scene and make them see and experience what you saw and experienced and that is a precious gift. I enjoyed that. Do you shave your head? ----Texas Cow Gal

TG: Thanks for the compliment. Yes, I shave my head. Do you shave yours?

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Sagebrush Stumper

Nebraska is known for covered wagons, corn and comedians. What does "Nebraska" mean? (answer in tomorrow's blog)

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Another email from "Texas Cow Gal". . . .

On Gunfights and Ghosts

When I went to Tombstone in the mid 90's, I went as a history fanatic. I wanted to see the spot where the famous gunfight took place and picture it in my mind. I walked down the street toward the OK Corral (right, arrow), although the gunfight really took place behind the corral. As I walked I was facing the mountains the way the Earps and Doc Holliday did when they walked toward the shootout. That was a thrilling part of history. But when I got to the spot where the shooting actually started, I didn't have time to study where each man stood because I was instantly surrounded by an almost physical atmosphere of hatred and violence. It felt like poison and it was emotionally sickening. It was the hatred the Earps and Doc, and the Clantons and Tom McLaury, felt for each other. It was very frightening because it was so implacable. The only thing anyone could have done that day was fight or run. Now I know that. Those men wanted to physically destroy each other, and of course some of them were destroyed. I was very surprised by that experience because I had never had one like it and have not had one like it since. But now I know I have never hated anybody and I never want to. I couldn't stand the feelings I was experiencing and had to leave after four or five minutes. When people say the hate was all on the Clanton side, they don't know what they are talking about. I no longer feel the gunfight was romantic. And I know I would not have wanted to be there.

When I left the corral, I went over to the museum, once the courthouse (left). Immediately, I was assaulted by the smell of human excrement, which came and went. When I walked into the stone building the smell immediately approached me; that's the only word that describes it, "approached." But then, as I started to look at the exhibits, the stench drifted off. Then it came back. I couldn't figure out what was happening. If the museum had a problem with sewage pipes, why did the smell drift around? Why didn't it blanket the whole structure?

When I wandered to the back of the museum, all was made clear. I found the courtyard where they hanged men. When you hang somebody, they void their bowels. One of those doomed men is still there and telling people what happened to him in the only way he knows how. To make sure I wasn't imaging something, I talked to the woman who was running the gift shop. I asked her if the courthouse was haunted and if the haunting was connected with a very bad smell. She looked at the floor and nodded yes. I guess she was ashamed to admit she believed in ghosts. I hope that poor spirit finds peace.

The Perils of Pioneers

I am a Kansan. I am an ophidiophobic. I come by it naturally. My ancestors were ophids. My descendants will be ophids.

When Kansas was settled in the 1850's, many new arrivals came from the colder climates, especially New England. Having hiked, biked, fished, and lived up there for many years, I must say that the only snake I ever saw in all that time was a little thing, about the size of a Kaw River earthworm. I can only imagine what these people from those regions thought when they arrived in Kansas and saw their first 10' long bull snake. No, I don't have to imagine; I mention their reactions in my book on "Bleeding Kansas," War To The Knife.

Even more than politics, slavery or war, the folks who settled Kansas Territory were most concerned with the silent, slithering peril beneath their feet. Their diaries and mail back home aver as much. In a letter to those still in Ohio, one settler on the broad Neosho River in the southern part of the Territory wrote: "Mother, I swear no one back there will believe this, but yesterday I saw a serpent crossing the river that was so long that when its head reached one bank its tail was still on the other!" Exaggeration or not, the man's point was clear. Other settlers were shocked not only by the incredible size of the monsters, but by their nightmarish numbers as well.

In her rude cabin near Baldwin City, Julia Lovejoy (right) awoke one morning to find a huge rattlesnake coiled under her bed. After further search, she discovered another rattler "peering with sparkling eyes" from a cupboard just over the crib where her baby lay sleeping. Julia also shares the experiences of her neighbors:

Mrs. Sanders . . . one extremely warm night, spread her bed on the ground inside their cabin, as they had no floor, took her babe and one or two other children, and lay herself down to sleep. In the night she turned herself over to nurse her babe, and felt something sting her under lip severely; the pain increasing, she called on her husband, who slept elsewhere, who got a light and went to a trunk to get some "pain-killer," and there coiled behind the trunk was a rattlesnake; her lip continuing to swell shockingly, he ran for some neighbors, and when he returned found two more rattlesnakes in his cabin, and his poor wife in awful agony–her lip turned black, and one who saw it informed me that it looked as large as her arm-–her head and neck swelled to her shoulders-–her eyes assumed the peculiar look of a snake's eyes, and as long as she could speak, in piteous tones, she begged them to keep the snakes from biting her children.

"We can face a wild cat," admitted Julia, "but let a copperhead or a rattlesnake make their appearance, and our courage is all gone." Spoken like a true Kansas ophid.

Rare was that immigrant who was indifferent to snakes. Over time, however, reptiles became a normal, if frightening, fact of frontier life. Scratched James Stewart in his diary:

June Sun 10. Clear & beautiful, a good breeze. Killed a rattlesnake in the house this morning, wrote a letter and read.

For young Stewart, at least, poisonous vipers sharing a cabin had become almost too common to note.

There is also a newspaper account from the 1860's of a man mowing a railroad right-away with a two-handled scythe. Encountering a snake, the worker was so startled that he excitedly tried to club the reptile with the handle of his tool. Unfortunately, the business end of the sharp instrument came down like a guillotine and hacked off his head. Although this account took place in Ohio, judging by his reaction I strongly suspect that the headless man was a Kansan who had fled east in hopes of escaping the serpents.

Much More later.

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Emails

John Ringo: A Genealogical Moment

The Younger boys grandfather had 19 children (that he acknowledged) by four different women, so it's difficult to sort out who were full brothers and sisters and who were half without a scorecard. Among them were Henry (the Younger boys father), Coleman, Bruce and Adeline.

Coleman was the second husband of Augusta Peters Inskeep, the sister of [Johnny] Ringo's mother.

Bruce was the second husband of Myra Maybelle Shirley Reed, later known as Belle Starr.

Adeline was the wife of Lewis Dalton, and was the mother of the Dalton boys.

As I have mentioned before, Ringo's maternal grandmother's brother was Benjamin Sims--Zerelda James' second husband and the James boys' stepfather.

Through marriage, Ringo (above) was related to an encyclopedia of outlaws.

Chuck Rabas, Kansas City, Missouri

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From the "Fightingest Fort on the Plains," Fort Wallace, Kansas

We had about 200 people attend our cornerstone dedication for the new museum addition, which is a large attendance for a town of 50! We had people showing up from several counties around and even out of state. The new 7th Cavalry re-enactment unit was a hit---there were 8 riders and a horse-drawn supply wagon. They have worked hard on assembling uniforms and authentic tack. The museum actually owns a number of McClellan saddles that have been re-furbished. Our winter will be spent in assembling the new exhibit. The Floris and Viola Weiser Collection contains hundreds of artifacts from the 7th, 5th and 10th Cavalries during the early Indian Wars period, and we want to present the "stuff" in a way that leaves the visitor with a real impression of history. We are excited about the special creative ideas that are being put into the exhibit, including using an actual building from Fort Wallace as a divider and facade. It's so cool to work with the talented and creative people of this organization. They are truly "Sons of the Pioneers." The same ingenuity of their great-grandfathers will be expressed in the presentation of this new collection.

Jayne Pierce, Wallace, Kansas

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My "Spooky #3" Racing Buddy

Thanks for sharing this with me [a biking story]. I don't have a printer at the hotel, but I'll download your writing when I get home. I qualified 17th today in my Formula Mazda at Heartland Park. Maybe I'll catch you on the trail again before I leave.

John Elder, Minneapolis, Minnesota

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Answer to yesterday's Sagebrush Stumper: wild, untamed (Sp.).

Spooky #3

Watched that bizarre movie last night, Fargo. So ketchy. So hypnotic. So out there. The film is set in snowy Minnesota (and I guess, North Dakota) and just skates to its own weird drumbeat. The language and mannerisms of these folk of Swedish and Norwedish stock are really distinct from the rest of us in the lower 48. Anyway, I am flying along on the bike trail today and pass this guy who is clipping along pretty well himself. A mile or so later, I realize he is on my tail so we step it up a bit and more or less race for the next two or three miles. When we reach the end, we stop, we pause, we chat. Seems he is in town for the car races; not as a spectator, mind you, but as a driver (which might explain why he didn't like being passed on the bike trail). Kicker is: He hails from Minneapolis. And he sounded just like those folks in the movie last night. Wild! The last time I spoke with anyone from Minnesota was several years ago when I visited the Waterloo of the James Gang, Northfield. Spooky.

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Mild Bill

Several blogs back ("Spooky #2," 9.26.06) I wrote about young James Butler Hickok (right) blasting his way up the food chain at Rock Creek, Nebraska. There, in the summer of 1861, Hickok bushwhacked one man, then coolly gunned down two more who tried to help the first. Prior to this famous massacre (the OK Corral was a fair fight by comparison), Jim was little more than an errand boy and pooper scooper at the stage station there. What most folks don't realize is that even before the tussle at Rock Creek catapulted him into the limelight, Hickok had already stepped onto the world stage five years earlier.

In 1856, Hickok--like hundreds of other thrill seekers with no visible means of support--was bumming around Kansas Territory looking for some food and a change of clothes. The slavery issue was heating up in Kansas at the time and both sides, Pro-slavery and Free-soil, were getting serious about killing one another. While it seems doubtful that Jim was motivated by any ideal higher than grubbing his next meal, the young man apparently rode for a while with the Free-state forces under James Lane.

When the situation finally eased somewhat the following year, Jim found himself in Montecello (now a suburb of Kansas City), where he finagled his first job as a Kansas law dog. As the following excerpt makes so painfully clear, the youthful constable was a man of deeds, not letters:

There has been 25 horses stolen here Within the last ten days by to men by the name of Scroggins and Black Bob. They have narry one been taken yet but I think they will ketch it soon. if they arecaught About here they Will be run upawfull soon to the top of Some hill . . . where they won't steel Any more horses.

A few years later, we find Hickok still at work on the volatile Kansas-Missouri border, engaged in the perilous business of serving as a Yankee spy and scout. By the end of the Civil War, Mild Bill was well down the road to becoming Wild Bill. And the rest is history.

Modern times do seem numbingly dull when compared to Hickok's day. Perhaps that is why so many of us eat, drink, sleep, live (and relive) the period. Thank God for history!

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From George Laughead's "Odd Old West" file:

An interesting trial was recently had before Justice Lowell, of this city. It appears that a couple of citizens of this county, in a merry mood of recklessness, got to racing on their way home from town and accidentally collided, damaging one of the wagons. Forthwith the owner of the broken wagon sued the other for damages, and after securing the service of lawyers, empanelling a jury and a two days trial, succeeded in getting a judgment for twenty-five cents. It pays to go to law. Holton (KS) Express, March 26, 1875.

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Sagebrush Stumper

Meandering through four Western states, the Cimarron is one of the most romantic rivers in America. What does Cimarron mean? (answer in tomorrow's blog)

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Coming Tomorrow: Snake Stories from the Frontier!!!!!

An Historian in Handcuffs

Last winter my Mom died. She had Alzheimer's. A few minutes after leaving the cemetery in a borrowed red Corvette (a caring friend had thought it might brighten a gloomy day), I was pulled over on a lonely rural road for doing 63 in a 40. Forget the fact that it was a speed trap, pure and simple. I had traveled this road often and knew it was a speed trap. I suppose my mind was somewhere else this day.

Well, as bad as the situation was, it got worse in a hurry. The arresting officer ran my name and discovered that I had an outstanding warrant in the neighboring county where I live. And so, without further ado, I found myself handcuffed and sitting in the back of the patrol car. Fortunately, my embarrassed son was with me and he drove the car home.

After a brief ride, with handcuffs biting into my wrists and the faint whiff of someone's lost lunch wafting about, the officer stopped at the county line and there we were met by a Topeka policeman. No sooner were the old cuffs off than a new set were on. While this was in progress, a school bus, loaded with students, slowly drove by as I stood there in my tie and heavy overcoat. "Crime doesn't pay" was etched on every kid's staring face. I was then hauled away to court.

After stumbling and blowing out a knee on the marble courthouse steps, I at last stood before the judge.

"Why are you here?" the young man in black said with some surprise.

"Dog at large, your honor."

When his eyes finally returned to their sockets, a look of pain came over the judge's handsome face. Politely, quietly, this good man said that he was sorry, sorry, sorry. My arrest, he assured me, should never have occurred and had I been stopped in my home county, it wouldn't have. With a soft wave of the judge's hand, I was a free historian again.

The cause for this chain of events was Bobby, my ten pound Pekingese who weaseled his way through the picket fence one day and was picked up by the pound. It cost nearly a hundred dollars to spring the little sucker, plus I was ordered to buy a license for him as soon as possible. This last injunction I ignored, then soon forgot. Hence the warrant for my arrest.

Surreal? You bet! Angry? Not at all. I was the guilty party. Everyone else was just doing their jobs--jobs, as the judge implied, performed somewhat zealously, but jobs nonetheless.

As for me? Obviously, I had never buried a mother before; nor had I ever been arrested and handcuffed before. And yet, within the space of five minutes I had experienced both. Once she was over her painful embarrassment, my Mom, had she been alive, would have laughed until her sides split.

Life is wine. Drink it down.

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Political Joke of the Day

A cowboy walked into the bar and ordered a beer just as Bill Clinton came on the TV. After a few sips he looked up at the screen and mumbled, "Now there's the biggest horse's a-s I've ever seen." Immediately, a customer at the end of the bar got up, walked over, decked him, and left.

A few minutes later, the man was finishing his beer when Hillary Clinton appeared on the TV.

"She's a horse's a-s too," he said.

A customer from the other end of the bar got up, walked over, and knocked him off his stool.

"Damnit!" the man said, climbing back up to the bar. "This must be Clinton country!"

"Nope," the bartender replied. "Horse country!"

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Answer to yesterday's Sagebrush Stumper: Just "S" with no period.