‘YESTERYEAR'S TOMORROW’
by James R. Gauselman
Copyright 1986
A day like many others in this drawn, rough hewn land, an early winter snow was beginning to dust the bitterly frozen house and fields of my grandfather's, Packy as he was know, ranch.
Yet, before the day was over and tomorrow's first seeds of sunlight were planted, this day would be forever etched in the character of this newest generation, by what I was about to inherit during the events of the next few hours with him.
An early blue-hazed dusk was settling in as mom and I approached the house, the tires of our rust-ridden Studebaker crumbling the brittle surface of the dirt and gravel drive. The jagged fence posts, shrubs and the few barren trees that lined our path now blistered by the glistening icy crystals. We had driven out from town, mom dropping me off at the ranch to spend the weekend.
"Howdy, Bobby!" Packy always greeted me with his dusty dry voice.
His appearance every bit the cowboy image likened to by over a century of history and legendary storytelling, Packy's childhood and cow punching days were still, in his hard-worn years, very much part of his demeanor. And the modernization of the surrounding world changed little what he considered of value. The west that he knew and the values he learned he carried with him in his very blood and soul. The American west, he understood. And it was that which bound every cell of his existence.
As a young boy of eleven during the late forties, I was, like most boys of the era, consumed with fascination for the life and ways of those who ventured to settle America
And the best of my times with Packy were when he shared his many stories. Frequently around a fire, since I was just an infant, I suppose, he told me his fantastic tales of gunfights, bank robberies, wars with the Indians and the hardships the settlers endured simply to survive. But most of all he honored this history with reminiscences about family, and how my great grandfather first settled on this ranch. "It is our family heritage," he would proudly say.
Packy was at a waypost in life where recalling memorable moments of his youth were preferred to events of the present. And I had a boyish enthusiasm to re-enact the yarns that turned to sagas with the passage of time. So it seemed only natural that he and I had so much in common. Each for reasons of our own, we shared in the bonds of the past.
Mom, having surrendered her marrow to modern city sophistication, thought it was a bit silly, even sad, for a grown man to continue to 'play' cowboy. However, I think she was more concerned about his influence on me. Nevertheless, Packy and I had great times together. Especially when he would fall prey to the pair of six guns that never left my side. The best of Hollywood stuntmen couldn't die with the exuberant talent of Packy. Together, we loved everything about the west; fact and fantasy.
Donning my white hat, and grabbing my knapsack and saddlebags, containing a few extra duds for the stay, I tripped my way to the house, falling over my 'genuine cowboy chaps', with my homemade bottle cap spurs jingling at my heels and my now icy cold guns slapping my thighs.
"Well, how's my tin star doin'?" Packy said.
"Ready to show the likes of you the way out of town," I responded.
Of course, I was the good guy. So Packy obligingly wore the traditional bad guy black hat; playing the role so believably as to cast doubt on his true character. Our aggravating banter and threats of a showdown were all part of our on-going play.
I followed my usual trail through the canyon sized double doors and on into my favorite room, Packy's study. This is where the dust covered artifacts and mementos were a constant reminder of a way of life since past, perhaps never to be cherished again, except by a few remaining human relics testifying to the history that made America what it was and what it was yet to become.
As Packy ambled into the room, somewhat slowed by a limp, a gate aggravated by years of carrying the weight of his large once muscular frame on a leg long since crushed by an angry unbroken horse, I touted "Hurry! It's time! Are you ready?"
"Of course," he said. "I've been waiting all week."
It was time for what had become for us a tradition; an evening in front of the Philco console radio where Packy and I with unbridled enthusiasm would relive the glory days of the old west, listening to popular serial programs.
Packy had taken his seat in the heavily upholstered leather chair by the stone fireplace, while I tuned the radio. As the program began, I lay on the floor, my weight pressing my elbows into the hard clay tile veneer, forearms raised with my chin resting in the palms of my upturned hands. I stared into the red light at the base of the radio, indicating it was turned on, as if it was a portal to the images and adventures that would soon materialize and flow through my mind's eye.
Jolted to attention, from the speaker sprang the now familiar "Hi! Yo! Silver!...A fiery horse with the speed of light. A cloud of dust. And a hardy Hi! Yo! Silver!" Packy and I inched closer toward the radio in anticipation.
As intent as I was on listening, I thought, how curious this night Packy had taken peculiar interest in this one program. What was it about this drama that drew Packy's special interest? My thoughts put aside, I turned my attention back to the radio.
The deep, rich baritone voice of the narrator continued as we settled in, "...With his faithful Indian companion, Tonto, the daring and resourceful masked rider of the plains led the fight for law and order in the early west. Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear --- The Lone Ranger rides again!"
Packy would take just such an opportunity to follow the radio with stories of his own making, as he would this night. However, not to be outdone by the imaginings of script writers, Packy told real grabbers. He described nostalgic stories about things that actually happened, in our town, and in the lives of the people who settled here. Such stories carried not only the weight of history, but also the colorful penchant Packy had for displaying the more dramatic and stirring highlights of his own first-hand accounts.
Not out of character, Packy would surprise me this night. For he would tell me a true tale unlike any he had told before. He would tell me of his personally meeting the real Lone Ranger.
Chapter One
THE BURDEN OF DUSTY TRAILS
The droning clop of horse hooves could be heard echoing off the wood plank and glass store fronts as the saddle-laden mare and its rider made their way through the dust-blown streets of town.
It was the year eighteen hundred and ninety-one. Nearing the turn of a century; nearing the end of an era.
Slung low and hunched over in the saddle appeared the silhouette of an elderly vagrant of a man as the pair emerged from the shadows in the bend at the south end of town.
His thin, tattered clothes caked with cinders, and his raggedly shaped thick, broad gray beard led me to an impression of one who possessed little and concerned oneself with less of what most would consider life's essentials.
Paying no mind to the bustle of the town's people he approached quietly and deliberately. Dismounting, and tying his horse at the nearby trough, a quartet of the town's sour notes approached, cat-calling and disrupting an otherwise commonly quiet afternoon.
As was their usual insolent manner they tried to bully the old man into a showdown of wills but he did not so much as flinch. Indeed, he had seemed somewhat annoyed by their unsolicited presence. However, he did not show his hand, if he had one at all. Nor did he coward-out. But perhaps the four were only leery of an unmeasured stranger; for with few words or gestures he had defused the rabble into deserting their useless and fruitless efforts.
"I was about your age at the time," Packy was saying, "standing just a few feet from him, when he turned and asked me if I would look after his horse and few possessions while he picked up supplies and directions at the general store. He seemed to be nice enough, at least to me. But there was something, something missed upon first examination. In hindsight, he appeared a man lost in an echoing depth of emptiness."
"When he returned he stopped to thank me, and asked my name."
"Packy," I told him. "What's yours?"
"McHugh," he responded. "Thanks for watching my things."
"Glad to be of help. Where ya headed?" I curiously prodded.
He told me he was on his way to work for a rancher in the area. "...at the Star Water ranch."
Flabbergasted, he didn't look like no ranch hand to me, I chokingly burst out with, "That's where I live! My pa owns the Star Water ranch!"
I told Mr. McHugh that I was in town with one of the hands, running errands for pa. He was welcome to return with us.
"Boy! Is pa goin' to be surprised when he sees this guy," I remember thinking. "He must have hired him sight-unseen."
Well, as it turned out, pa did hire him sight-unseen, as I learned when we got back to the ranch late that afternoon.
"Who ya got taggin' along with ya there, Packy?" pa was shoutin' from the rail of the ranch house porch.
"Your new hand," I plainly shouted back.
"New hand!"
"My name's McHugh, Mr. MacCormack. Joseph Wainwright, in Denver
Confused, pa shook his head, then..."Wainwright sent you? Wainwright told me he would send me the best man he could find for the money. Either he doesn't know very many good men or I can't afford much."
McHugh wasn't stirred by my pa's straight forwardness. He pointedly stated, "I would be the last to question Mr. Wainwright's judgment. Besides, the fact is, you really can't afford much!"
So much said, pa resigned himself to the truth. "This is one time when I too will have to trust someone else's judgment. The good Lord knows my judgment has been lacking of late. Packy will show you where to bunk. I'll expect you for dinner."
McHugh proved himself more adept as foreman than pa had any reason to expect. His handling of the ranch's affairs was both keen and potentially profitable. However, all would be for naught if we could not stop serious criminal attempts to steal our ranch.
You see, a high-falootin' eastern investor had come to town claiming that he owned our land. He said something about my pa not having proper title.
John Frye, the local bank president, concurred. "He has the proper documents," he told pa.
But, of course, pa wasn't about to just hand the ranch over. He had worked too hard for what he had built here.
We had less time to prove our case than we had hoped. And a short while after his arrival, pa spoke of the situation with McHugh.
"I don't know where to turn," pa said. "If we don't come up with something, something soon to prove that this ranch is rightfully mine, I'm going to lose it to that crook, Frank."
Regretfully, McHugh said, "I don't have much to go on, Mr.MacCormack. I believe you are telling me the truth. But times have changed. Today, rustling is much more efficient. They don't take just a few head of cattle. They steal the whole ranch."
"Again, I'm sorry" he said. "I don't see where there's much that I can do."
There was a disappointment and discouragement in the eyes of both men. Would pa be able to save the ranch, or would he die in a showdown of wills in a fruitless effort to keep it?
The stress of events had been trying for us all. Pa was desperate. And I was afraid his actions may indeed lead to losing more than just the ranch.
"Mr. McHugh," I called out. I found him sitting on the splintered stump of a fallen Ponderosa pine, staring out onto the grazing range. He appeared lost in his thoughts and the limitless boundaries of the land.
He barely acknowledged my approach, slowly turning his head toward me, then back. Not a word, hardly a glance.
"What are we going to do?" I desperately inquired.
"I don’t know, Packy," he said as I dismounted. Then, seemingly confused, "I wish I could do more to help, but - well - I’m not sure."
I just found it hard to give up. It seemed to me that we should have been able to find a solution. Someone should be able to help us. "Pa used to tell me that he heard stories of people in trouble and of a man, a masked man, who helped them."
"That was some time ago, son. There was such a man. He was called The Lone Ranger. But I don't think he would be much help to us anymore," he said with doubting regret.
"Do you see that white stallion out there? He used to ride a horse much like that one. And he had a good friend, an indian companion, who used to ride with him as well," he continued to ramble.
"Whatever happened to him?" I asked.
"Lost....." he mumbled. Then...
"What happens to many a man, Packy. He no longer sees life the way he once did. The world of black and white with simple concerns of right and wrong no longer exists. As the years pass he discovers that that life has been replaced with one of varying shades of gray and compromises. And it all happens before his very eyes. Yet he does not recognize what has taken place. Before he knows it he has no will .....There are no answers," he finally puzzled.
I was too young at the time to fully understand the meaning of his words but, "You sound as if you knew him," I anxiously followed.
"I knew him as I knew his companion, Tonto. There was never a more loyal friend than he."
It was then that I noticed items that he had attempted to slip out of sight when I first approached. "You're The Lone Ranger!" I exclaimed in sudden realization. But he didn't look anything like the famed hero pa described.
"Why can't you help my pa?" I wanted to know.
"I'm not The Lone Ranger!" he paused. "Not any more!" He fought his regret.
"The west has changed, Packy. There is more to law and justice than the paper the laws are written on. It's not just the letter of the law, but the spirit of that law that matters. Once, men cherished the spirit of the law. That spirit has now been forgotten, or ignored."
"Tonto and I? We tried and, in the end, we failed."
"That's not what pa told me," I said.
His anger and pain surfaced and bared itself, "Tonto died with a bullet in his back! And, for what?"
"He died for what you both believed in, and for what you wanted others to believe in. That's what pa says."
"I'm sorry about your friend," I said, with sorrow, as I remounted my horse and proceeded on my way.
Chapter Two
THE STUFF HEROES ARE MADE OF
I did not discuss what took place on that hillside with anyone else. Not even pa.
I could feel McHugh's frustration and distress, even though I did not fully understand the meaning of his words. I would come to know these things later, as you will, in my own time.
It had been several days since I had last seen McHugh. And the worse that could happen was taking place before my eyes. Pa stood face-to-face, gun barrel-to-gun barrel, as the alleged rightful owner of the land attempted to forcibly take the ranch from us.
As the cocking of gun hammers sounded death, a wholly unexpected figure approached unseen, stepped in, and ordered all arms to be lowered and holstered. He rose above the startled figures, his shadow sweeping over their now humbled righteous goals. They stood numbed as an eerie silence swept over the scene.
For there upon a horse that shone like silver in the backlit haze of the evening sun, sat a masked rider, both guns gleaming in hand, their barrels gazing down with unquestionable authority. And beneath the mask and broad-brimmed white hat of this once lost protector of law and order I could see the stuff heroes are made of.
Then, piercing the silence, one dang fool of a hired gun made a threatening move and had his gun cleanly shot out of his hand. And the masked man had hardly so much as flinched.
The immediate crisis over, the threat was disbanded, with a promise from the masked rider that he would do his best to find the truth and serve justice.
Just as imperceptively as he came, he left. With confidence, I turned to pa and encouraged him not to give up. "The Lone Ranger rides again!"
Epilogue
As the hour grew late and the dying embers of the fire flickered their last star-like specks of light on the darkened room, I lay huddled in Packy's lap.
It was long since past my normal bedtime. And I would soon be fast asleep.
But not before Packy assured me that it was, in fact, The Lone Ranger himself who ultimately saved our ranch from thieves, and he willed me his most cherished possessions.
For amongst the room's collection of aged memories and tintypes, Packy carefully sorted out two items I had never before seen or thought had ever really existed.
Just as they were given to him, for reminding an old man of the good he had done, and his contributions to a way of life, he guaranteed their future virtue by presenting them to me.
"All that truth, justice, integrity and honor should be are represented here in this silver bullet and mask," he said as he placed them in my hands. "Carry these and the values and spirit they symbolize with you all of your days, and the standards and principles that great men like The Lone Ranger and Tonto fought and died for will live on in you forever, never to be forgotten."
"Do this," Packy said, "and you and those who come after you will be forever...Yesteryear's Tomorrow!"
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