While the main character in this story is a real person, the events may be slightly exaggerated. The names of places mentioned may be slightly altered to protect those communities. Reader discretion is advised. High Noon at Turkee Oregon by Faye alias the Mountain Cowgirl Somewhere around 1972 after a short stay working on a large border ranch in west Texas and being a victim of horse theft, I left Texas never to return. I stopped off at my family's home ranch in Colorado to load up my old paint before heading north to seek my fame and fortune in Eastern, Oregon. My father had been through there on a train during WW2 headed to specialized training up at a base in Washington. "The grass wasn't necessarily greener," he said, "But the sagebrush is of an impressive size." My eyes caught sight of a Turkee Oregon ranchhand wanted ad at the Bar Rockin Bar Slanted X ranch as I gassed up my old pickup at a station in a place named Adios Bend. In trade for checking the fence line and cattle daily, I would have use of a nice small cabin rent-free and free boarding, pasture, and hay for my horse. I was free to take on a job running heavy equipment for a mining company so my withdrawals at the Raker City bank were legit. Little did I know that 50 years later I could wear a mask while making a withdrawal, but they would still frown on revolver twirling while requesting cash. I rode my old paint down to the local cafe/bar in Turkee. I hitched my old paint to the hitching post that had been there since the Oregon Trail pioneer days. Once inside I enjoyed a juicy burger and a tap-drawn icy mugged beer. The bill was $3 which seemed much too low, so I left a five. Once outside I noticed my horse had been stolen. I returned inside drew my Colt, twirled it a few times, and then shot a round in the ceiling and said loudly, "I am going to sit back down and have another mug of beer and if my horse isn't returned, then I will do what I had to do in Texas! Please, please, don't make me do the horrible horrible thing I had to do in Texas!" I twirled my Colt a few more times, holstered it, then sat down and drank the cold frosty beer after I sucked the foam off the top of it with my eyes narrowed as I stared coldly around the room. I finished, left two crisp Washingtons, and to my surprise my old paint was tied to the post just as I left her. As I mounted the kindly old lady that owned the cafe/bar came out hurriedly looking relieved but a bit pale and said, "Please, please honey, tell me about the horrible horrible thing you had to do in Texas." As I turned my paint ready to ride back to my cabin, I smiled, shrugged, and replied, "I had to walk home."