The Savagers of Cutthroat Canyon

A NOTE ON THE NARRATIVE THAT FOLLOWS This is the third time I’ve written what you are about to read. The first draft I sort of made a bunch of things up to make myself look good. But my wife Sally, even at her advanced age, even with eyes that basically just take up space in her head doing her no good at all, wouldn’t have it. She reminded me that the purpose of writing these chronicles was to set the record straight. So I rewrote the whole dang thing. And the editor, some guy in New York who puts on a suit just to go to the bathroom at night, declared it to be deadly boring. So for this version, I did what I didn’t want to do, which was to tell the unvarnished truth, warts and all. There are entire pages of what is to come in which I look and act like a useless pile of old horseshoes. (These, not surprisingly, are my editor’s favorite parts.) Why, sometimes I am not even the hero! The myth of the Old West is a strong one, filled with heroes and villains who loom large over the landscape even now, thanks to the outrageous imaginations of writers who have never wandered west of the Hudson River. And most of it bears no relation to reality. So this here is the true reality of that time, the unvarnished and embarrassing I-can’t-believe-I’m-putting-this-down-on-paper truth. You’re welcome. Curly Barnes August 1927