Beyond the Setting Sun

Wiley Coyote and The Roadrunner

A lewd song played on the jukebox.  The men drank beer and whisky and sang along in the seedy bar in Fort Benton, Montana.  An old man lay unconscious, slumped over the bar beneath a TV, where naked men and women were busy doing unspeakable things.

'Hey, Kelly!  show this Limey how tough we are in Montana.'  Mark Capis yelled over the noise of the music to a burly man who sat at a table nearby.  The rough-looking Kelly smiled a mean smile then grabbed a foot long Bowie knife strapped to his side.  With a wide grin on his face he held the tip of the blade, flipped the knife in the air, caught the handle in his meaty fist, then thrust the blade deep into his thigh.  The smile stayed on his face and he didn't even flinch.  The blood drained from my face and I wondered if I'd come to the wrong bar... and whether I'd get out alive.  Everyone in the bar laughed fit to burst.

'It's a fake leg,' cried Kelly.  I burst out laughing too.  Montana was wild.

I had reached Fort Benton at eight in the evening.  As darkness fell I met up with Pam Capis, a hospice nurse who lived in the small town.

'Go show Colin the historical plaques in town Mark,'  Pam had told her son.  Mark was my age and a student at Bozeman University.  We ambled down to the street that ran alongside the Missouri and read about the times when Fort Benton was the bloodiest frontier town in America.  Prospectors, gamblers, cowboys, saloon owners, all had fought and died for one reason or another in this place.

Fort Benton had begun as a collection of tents and huts: a garrison set up to keep Sioux Indians from fighting back as white settlers took their land and profiteers slaughtered the buffalo that were the Sioux's livelihood.  Paddle steamers came up the Missouri as far as Fort Benton, which was the jump-off point for The Rockies and the gold country of the West.

Mark and I had walked along, reading the plaques and trying not to be too bored.  Then I'd noticed a couple of bars.  The local football team had won and it was time to celebrate.  Well, that was the excuse anyway.

In no time I had been welcomed in by the bar crowd.  A few medicinal beers would help my cold, I'd decided, and that was when Kelly had nonchalantly stabbed himself in the thigh.  In the 'bloodiest town in America' we had a good night.

It was several hours later that Mark and I wobbled home, singing the Rodeo song.

'Sshhhh, sshhhsh.  Mom's probly gone ta bed.'  Mark fumbled with the door and tried to keep me quiet.  In we went.

'Evenin' boys.  How were those historical plaques?'  Frowning, Pam looked us up and down, while we tried to keep straight faces.

'Oh... very... interesting.'  I slurred an answer and beamed a smile at my hostess.

'There's some interestin' bars, too.  You two had best hit the hay.  What would hospice say if they knew you were leading my son astray and gettin' him ta drink!'  Pam smiled as she said this and Mark was grinning.  All in all it was a good night and after a couple of thousand miles on the road it helped to lift my spirits.

'Now... Great Falls.'  I looked at the map.  Route 87 went into Great Falls and there I would meet up with Hospice people based at Columbus Hospital.  The Rockies lay beyond.

A lady called Cathy Carter was supposed to meet me outside Great Falls in a white car.  The next day I would have a triumphant walk into town for Thanksgiving Day.  Thoughts of turkey, pumpkin pie and other good food encouraged me to walk quickly.  I'd crossed The Plains... and that was something to give thanks for.  New York, The Great Lakes, and now The Plains lay behind.  Still alive and with just a cold to show for it.  In truth I felt pretty rundown.  A day's rest in Great Falls would be good.  After the small towns of the Mid-West the cilties of Great Falls, Helena, Butte and Bozeman were spots where publicity would be on a larger scale, which would be good for the hospices based there.