Rout Of The Varmints


Something had to be done to avoid a holocaust, but fortunately the man to meet this crisis was at hand. Down from his seat on the river bank strolled the impresario who had arranged for the presence of the Apaches. He was attired in the conventional cowboy costume and wore long black braids that fell in front of his ears and were tied at the ends with pink felt ribbons. Paying no attention to the white soldiers or the red braves, he stopped midway between the embattled lines. A silence broken only by an occasional war whoop fell upon the field. Turning toward his hired Indians, the impresario spoke in a voice that would carry to the furthermost reaches of Oklahoma:

“Ef‘n you don’t retreat you don’t get a goddamn cent.”

Then we fearless bluecoats swept the field before us.