Sky Valley Messenger

 I would like to share a short story, largely summing up my connection to trains.

It was late June of 1969; I was 15 years old. At the time my family lived on a small horse ranch near a small town in eastern Washington named Valley. My father heard of a special Great Northern train that was coming from Spokane, Washington and ending in Chewelah, with several stops along the way, including one at Valley. The reason for the event escapes me.

My father, being a big prankster, recognized a sure opportunity. He managed to find out the general time the train would be stopping in Valley, that it would be picking up passengers, mostly children, some dignitaries, and clowns to entertain the children. My father, and a friend, whom I only knew as “Bob”, determined to stage a train holdup, my brother and I were to take part, a sort of introduction to manhood.

Word of the holdup managed to get out prior to the event. The local paper, The Chewelah Independent, reported in an article on the front page of the June 19 issue, just days prior the holdup, “authorities are checking out a rumor that a train robbery is expected enroute.”

On the morning of the event, we hauled the horses to town by truck. Not knowing exactly when the train would arrive, we were exceedingly early. The skies were slightly overcast, and it was a bit chilly. We were dressed in our standard western regalia, cowboy hats and boots, blue jeans, chaps, and a neckerchief to pull up to cover our faces during the dastardly deed. Dad and his friend Bob had real guns with live ammo.

No gang of outlaws worth their salt would be complete without a bottle of whiskey to warm the bones and calm the spirits. Dad thought of everything. As mom would say,” A swig of that will cure what ails ya.” So, the bottle was passed around. Once was enough for me; my throat burned, my eyes watered, and being a man never seemed so unappealing, but I kept up the blustering front, fooling no one, I’m sure.

My brother always had an inordinate attraction to bees. That is, they were attracted to him. While we were waiting for the train to arrive, standing with the horses, he managed to step in the middle of a wasp nest. He had a few more reasons to remember that day than I did.

The holdup was to take place in the heart of town and a large crowd had gathered for the arrival of the train. I doubt many knew of my fathers’ plans. After a two hour wait, about noon, the train came rumbling into town. The moment had arrived.

We mounted our horses, raised our masks, and charged after the train. Shots were fired in the air as the engine came to a halt. Dad and Bob leapt off of their horses, threw the rains to my brother and I and boarded the train. The dust, noise, and crowd spooked the horses so much that they were hard to hold. Next thing I knew Dad came off the train with one arm wrapped around a clown and one arm waving a gun in the air; more shots were fired. Another clown came up behind Dad and began hitting him with an umbrella. Dad mounted his horse, pulled the first clown over the saddle in front of him and off we all went, guns a blazing.

We let the clown go about seventy-five yards later. Thus ended my first experience with trains. Horses, trains, guns, and clowns…what a day to remember.