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| Dad told me stories of how my great grandpa Chris would take wagon loads of grain to Miles City, about 120 miles away as the crow flies. There wasn't really a road, but there was a route. The route had large cut logs placed along the way at the top of large hills that you couldn't get around, you hooked these logs to your wagon in order to get down the hill safely, and then unhooked your team and used them to pull the log back to the top for the next guy. Needless to say if you didn't drag the log back to the top you were on a Major $#!^ list in Miles City where you were educated to replace the log at the top of the hill after you used it. Grandpa Chris was in the process of educating a guy about this when the guy went to pull a knife. Grandpa Chris pulled his pistol out of his pocket ("you always kept your pistol in your pocket, so it couldn't be taken away from you", spoken in slow english with heavy Danish accent) and hit the guy in the head with it, knocking the guy out. The sheriff came, and asked Chris how he had knocked the guy out, to which Chris responded "I hit him". That was the end of that story, and Chris always a brake log at the top of the hill for the rest of the trips that year. | |
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I Drove The Last Team Of Horses
