Across the railroad tracks from our old bone-dry ranch in New Mexico, lived a family by the name of Braidfoot. The family included a son named Wayne, the man of the house. Wayne ran the cattle ranch along with his sister and mother. Good neighbors they were.

For many years, before moving to the ranch in New Mexico, the Braidfoots had ranched in Mexico. The old man Braidfoot was from the old cowboy school – right or wrong, everything had to be done the hard way. My dad would tell me stories about how he would help them brand the cattle from time to time during the summer. They would be gone on horseback by 4 AM, gather and brand the cattle, then drive them somewhere miles from where they had started. Often it would be midnight before they returned to the ranch. The women worked just as hard as the men, and once back at the ranch, they cooked for the crew of weary cowboys. Then, the next day, they would do it all over again. That old man Braidfoot loved to drive cattle – whether they needed it or not.

At this time Wayne was not quite twenty, and full of piss and vinegar. World War II had just begun and he got caught up in the draft. For all the trouble he stayed in he should have been a preacher’s son. That was the main reason the old man wouldn’t let Wayne go to town very often – it cost too much to keep him out of trouble. The old man was kind of glad to hear that his wayward son got drafted. He told Wayne on his departure, "Well, maybe the damn Army can take some of that crap out of you. Be ready to work when you get back home." After what Wayne had been through on the ranch, boot camp was a breeze for him. However, he didn’t cotton to the idea of having people shooting at him. I guess the Army could see that Wayne wasn’t going to make a great fighting machine, but he did have a good nose for trouble. So they made him an MP (Military Police), figuring it was a good way to keep him out of the brig until they could find something else to do with him. Once out of boot camp, Wayne got his orders to report to New York City in 30 days. He would be going to North Africa for his next duty. Since he wasn’t due there for a month, he returned to the ranch for a brief visit. Ready to leave for the Big Apple, he decided to swim up whiskey river before he got there. Wayne was drunk as a skunk and sick as a dog when he arrived, and in no shape to travel on a troop ship bound for North Africa. Drunk, but not out of his mind, he knew that he was in trouble and he had to think of something fast. He only had 2 hours to get to the ship, and that wasn’t enough time to sober up, so he did the next best thing. He got there sick – but in style. He hired an ambulance to take him to the docks. That way, he could prove he was sick. I guess whoever was in charge liked the idea. Wayne didn’t go to the brig. But it didn’t keep him out of North Africa. He sailed on the ship that night from New York City Harbor.

Once his military duty was over, Wayne returned to the ranch he’d left behind. During his absence, old man Braidfoot had passed on, leaving Wayne in charge of ranch operations. Wayne was a good cowboy and rancher. He wasn’t afraid of hard work, but he never missed a chance to take a little vacation time. He was afraid he would up and die, and he didn’t want to miss out on any of his hard-earned vacation time. To Wayne, a vacation was a trip to El Paso’s whiskey mills and senoritas – and let the good times roll. He was a strong man, but he did have a weak spot in his armor for American whiskey and Mexican women. With too much whiskey, that weak spot would sure grow. Every now and then he had been known to get really drunk and screw up and marry a white woman. It has been recorded that this happened eight times – with probably a few more that never got in the books. I have nothing against white women, but in all honesty they just weren’t the kind of ladies that would survive with old Wayne in marital bliss. Wayne did really good on the courting part – and not half bad on the "I do" part. One can be sure that the honeymoon was a blast for the pair. But after that it was downhill all the way. Old Wayne was a little like an old corrientie steer that won’t stay in the pasture; the grass always looked greener on the other side of the fence. After all the split-ups old Wayne had, after the fur and feathers had flown, he and his many brides would just sort of go their separate ways, while still remaining friends. Maybe the brides figured that being with Wayne was a learning experience they needed before moving on to better pastures. I don’t recall any of their names, but there’s a good reason for this. Wayne gave them all the same nickname. He called them all "Old Squirt". I never really knew why he’d picked that name, but never really cared to find out, either. When Wayne got nervous he’d stutter. If a person would pin him down to details and explanations it would make him nervous. Like the names of his brides – times and places, etc. He wasn’t a feller for order and detail. "No extra problems" was his motto, ‘cause he created enough of his own without outside help. I remember one time when my dad asked him about one of his brides, the stutter began, "na na nanow, da da dammit Leo – not dammit, that must have must have been Old Squirt." Then the conversation just died away.

Wayne’s mother was the sweetest little old lady you’d ever meet. I never heard her say an unkind word about anyone. She would comment on all of Wayne’s marital ventures, saying, "If there is a God in heaven, please Lord, let someone else pick out Wayne’s wives beside Wayne. Amen".

On one of Wayne’s last vacations to El Paso, he came home with bride number nine. But she was a keeper, and very different from all the rest. She was a Mexican lady. Wayne’s theory was practice makes perfect. Well, he did a right smart job of practicing with the first eight – the "perfect" part never came into the picture. This was around 1960. Wayne’s new bride was all of eighteen, and he was fifty-four. Having been raised in Mexico as a kid, Wayne spoke perfect Spanish. Every time he’d tell his bride something in Spanish, she’d giggle and laugh. She also inherited the nickname "Old Squirt". Wayne’s theory was, "why let an old family tradition die?". I’m sure he never told her the history of her nickname, and maybe he lived a couple of years more because of that wise decision.

Then Wayne up and sold the ranch. He’d had all of the cowboy life he wanted. Now, by God, with his new perfect child-bride, he was going to turn over a new leaf. Maybe not stop drinking American whiskey, but slow down some, and reach for new horizons he hadn’t yet seen – take in a little more culture – drink Mexican tequila with his new bride. Old Wayne decided that he was going to become a farmer – grow a lot of cotton. They moved to the little village of Columbus, an hour West of El Paso, in Southern New Mexico. Back in the early 1900’s Pancho Villa and his band of outlaws had used this village as a base from which to launch their raids on the U.S. Well, all that had settled down by the time Wayne and his bride got there. They bought a little farm on the outskirts of town, and by God went to planting cotton seed for a fall crop. Well, once the cotton was planted, there wasn’t much for old Wayne to do during the daytime. At night, he took care of his bride. So he made his "office" at a little Mexican cantina called "The Pink Pony". There, in a matter of one day, everyone got to know Wayne well. As fate would have it, Columbus was needing a new judge. The previous judge had died of old age, and the village needed justice in order to survive. In their hour of judicial need, they called on Wayne. They knew that, in his time. He had been before most of the judges in New Mexico, and most in West Texas, at one time or another. So the voters of Columbus knew that old Wayne was familiar with the laws and the courtroom, even if most of the time he’d been on the wrong side of it.

The morning after the election, the population greeted the sun with a hangover. They all made their way to "The Pink Pony Courthouse" to let old Wayne know he was the new judge. With not a drop to drink, old Wayne accepted the job and informed those present that he’d be holding court there at "The Pink Pony" every morning from eight until ten. After that, he might not be "sober as a judge".

Columbus wasn’t what you’d call a high crime district, and no cases in Braidfoot’s court were ever appealed. There was good reason for this, according to the wisdom of old Judge Wayne. He would tell all who ever went before him, "No person, whether male or female, will ever be fined more than five dollars for any crime you may or may not have committed. If it’s over a five dollar crime, then by God, let Him judge you." All of the lawbreakers could live with that, so he was re-elected five years running. Since he had become a man of means, well, the cotton farm kind of went to Hell. But his last bride stuck with him. He’d known in his heart of hearts she was a keeper – an old squirt, Mexican style. Then one day, before he woke up, old Wayne passed away quietly in his sleep.

I guess that there are some good church-going folks who would judge old Wayne a sinner by all rights. But in reality, he will, like you and me, be judged only by God on that day.

It is my guess, and my hope, that old Wayne made it above the clouds, even if it was only by a thin prayer. And what in Heaven’s name would the good Lord have said when he saw old Wayne coming with the angels? Did he say, "Here come the judge"? No, I don’t think so. This is what I think he said on that day when Wayne rose above the clouds. "Well, thank God, here comes Old Wayne. Maybe now all those angels I’ve been sending to him will get a decent night’s sleep for a change".

Amen.