When I was 9, we built a cabin near West Yellowstone. The night we completed the structure, we went into town to celebrate with a rare meal at a restaurant. This was the summer of 1963 and my dad was 53 by then.

When we pulled into the parking lot, a punk in his early 20’s came strolling up to my dad and accused him of throwing a beer bottle at his car when we passed each other on the dirt road to the cabin.

My dad straightened out the punk’s confusion and his front teeth, in one solid blow to his face. That kid hit the ground so hard, the cigarettes in the sleeve of his t shirt, went flying all over the street. I remember picking up all the free cigarettes to give to my dad as a reward for his pugilism.

The kid picked up what was left of himself and told my dad he was going to get the sheriff and come and get my dad. Dad told him it wouldn’t be hard to find him, as he would be inside the Horseshoe Cafe having dinner.

We even had dessert that night without a visit from the local constable. This was the man you didn’t screw with, few did and no one more than once…


[Linked Image from i.imgur.com]


[Linked Image from i.postimg.cc]