"Land of the Free... Home of the Brave"

HE WAS A YOUNG cowpuncher, into town on a Saturday night. He was just like any other cowpuncher except this Saturday night was to be his last one in Prescott for a long time. His number had just come up in the draft, and the following day he was to leave for camp.

He had ridden the hills of old Yavapai for a good many of his youthful years and many a wind and many a sun had marked him for the son of the range and the son of the west that he was. He was a young American with slightly bowed legs and he was having the time of his life.

There are a good many bars on Whiskey Row and in each bar he found a friend. He was in and out of the Palace all evening drinking good American whiskey without a chaser. Some of the punchers from his own outfit came in and joined the farewell. They were good Americans, too, and it was up to them to see that their buddy got a proper sendoff.

Saturday night on Whiskey Row . . . a bunch of young cowpunchers making the rounds in hilarious celebration in honor of one of their friends whose number had come up in the draft and who was about to depart for army camp to give what he had to offer to his country. It was a proper time for a good American to celebrate and that puncher was a good American.

As the evening wore on the boys gathered at the Palace for a few last drinks. The high heels of their boots clanked on the hard floor, the music that poured from the music machine was loud and the talk and laughter louder. All the boys in the outfit, some of whom had num-bers that were soon forthcoming, gave him good advice on how and how not to get along in the army.

There was much shaking of hands, a few friendly embraces, many a pat on the back. And always there was laughter, because Americans laugh a lot. But there were no regrets. Anybodys number could come up in the draft and anyway it was just one of those things.

It was just before closing time when one of the boys suddenly espied the puncher's boots and made a profound observation: "What will a cowboy do with boots in the army?"

"Sure," another said, "you walk in the army." The matter of the puncher and his boots then became a topic of general discussion. Everyone had a voice in the matter and the comments were strictly serious.

"A cowboy don't need no boots in the army!" That was finally the opinion of all concerned.

The puncher whose boots were under discussion blinked and was trying to think it out for himself. Finally through the haze that had enveloped him through the course of the evening, he saw the answer. All his friends were waiting for him to decide.

"Hell," he said, "I'll leave 'em here."

Off came his boots. He staggered over to a light fixture and hung them up. A couple of his friends got some cardboard, a big, black pencil and wrote the necessary explanation. The signs were hung up by the boots. Below was a time-honored barroom painting of good old General Custer making his famous last fight. General Custer was a good American, too. The general would have been proud. . . . R. C.