Heady stuff for a young man who tried to make it home after work every night in time to catch the radio adventures of Sergeant Prestonof the Yukon and his wonder dog King.

Looking back, perhaps I should have spent more time listening to the stories that played at that round table, instead of tuningin to a commercial version of adventure. And, maybe I should have appreciated my dad more for what he was, instead of being embarrassed by the big napkin he was wont to tuck into his collar.

Wm. B. was born out of time and place. He should have been a crony of Diamond Jim Brady, or one of the "silver senators" of the 1880's. At least he had one of the attributes of someone born and raised in a time before radio, and television. He could tell a spellbinding story. No wonder I have a fascination with the "real" Old West.

Two favorites of my dad's collection were the tale about Union and Dixie Creeks, in Oregon, where gold panners escaping the Civil War, come Saturday night, would sneak over the divide to take pot shots at each other, more or less in the spirit of fans supporting their favorite team; and the one about a female stage driver in Harney County. Seemed this ugly as sin gal, who stunk twice as bad, had a habit of stopping her rig out on an alkali flat when a single male happened to be the only passenger. The young man was given the choice—put out with a little loving, or walk! Never happen? That's what I thought until I met Hyder Hanna, but that story comes later.