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BURNED–OVER DISTRICT, NY—Elmer Kelton, the superb Texas novelist, died Saturday. In 2006 I visited Mr. Kelton in his San Angelo home; herewith, via the late American Enterprise, the result:

Elmer Kelton was voted “Great Western Writer of All Time” by the Western Writers of America, a daunting title to work under, though he bears it modestly. There is, after all, that modifying adjective: Western.

Kelton, who turned 80 in April, has his academic champions, but he acknowledges that “the Western field is a literary ghetto. Critics don’t read a Western unless the book is contemptuous of its subject matter. If you write out of love for your subject matter they’ll dismiss you.”

Elmer Kelton loves his subject matter. He was born to it, after all. And if the Western is a ghetto, it is a remarkably rich ghetto populated by the likes of Edward Abbey (The Brave Cowboy), Jack Schaefer (Shane), Larry McMurtry (Lonesome Dove), and other novelists whose mortal sin, it seems, is setting their tales in open spaces rather than in the confines of the faculty lounge or city tenement. Elmer Kelton has an utter mastery of his subject; a distinctive, even arresting, point of view; and a narrative talent honed by writing for the Western pulps. His best work, The Time It Never Rained (1973), can be read as character study, regional literature, and philosophical novel: find me a navel-gazing New Yorker writer who has squeezed out a single book as rich, layered, and unsettling.

Following a lunch of–what else?–thick steaks, I spoke with Elmer Kelton in his study in the home he and his wife built half a century ago in the ranching town of San Angelo, Texas. His library overspills with books on Texas, cattle, and the West; his musical tastes run to Bob Wills, Roy Acuff, Willie Nelson, and Bill Monroe. He reels off the original lineup of the “Sons of the Pioneers.”

His father, a ranch foreman named Buck Kelton, came from a line of cowboys; his mother, Bea, was a schoolteacher whose male relatives worked as roustabouts in the oil fields. “In an oil-patch town like Crane,” where he attended school, recalls Kelton, “a boy who excelled in English and won spelling bees was automatically suspect.”

I ask about his youthful cowboying skills. “Pretty inept,” Kelton says with a smile. “My three younger brothers were all better cowboys than I was. I got lost a lot–turns out I was nearsighted. We’d go out to gather cattle and if they were 100 yards away I’d miss ’em. Dad told me pretty early I’d better find some other way to make a living.”

Being a novelist was not exactly what Dad had in mind. When Elmer, as a senior in high school, told Buck Kelton that he wanted to write, the old cowboy replied, “That’s the way it is with you kids nowadays–you all want to make a living without having to work for it.”

Buck relented. Elmer went on to the University of Texas and a career as a journalist and novelist. He made his first story sale in 1947 to the pulp magazine Ranch Romances; 49 years later, his corpus has grown to 45 novels. Although Elmer never knew if his father read any of his books, Buck did “help me with details” on matters from windmill-raising to the proper way to castrate a colt. (“I’d held a rope but never did use the knife.”)

Like most writers, young Elmer was a listener, not a talker. “Cowboys, especially in the days before television, were pretty good storytellers. As a kid I loved to sit around and listen to them talk. I soaked it up like a sponge.”

Kelton is no typewriter cowboy rhapsodizing over the purple sage in purple prose; he knows whereof he writes. He spent 15 years on the farm-and-livestock beat for the San Angelo Standard-Times, followed by stints as an editor at Sheep and Goat Raiser Magazine and Livestock Weekly, “the Bible of the ranch business.” As TCU director of ranch management John Merrill has said, “In terms of birth, upbringing, and everyday involvement, he is the real thing and has been all his life.”

Kelton’s West is not Hollywood’s West: his cowboys are as distant from John Wayne as they are from Brokeback Mountain. He writes from inside the life of a ranch, with a brand of realism redolent of cedar brush and live oak, prickly pear and jackrabbits. He had a ravenous appetite for Westerns as a child, absorbing everything from Zane Grey to Roy Rogers, but “I knew the difference between fantasy and the reality I saw around me all the time. The reality was muddy and bloody and hot and cold. I wanted to write about cowboy life as I saw it to be.”

Innovation and loss

Kelton’s is a generous spirit; his cowboys, Mexicans, ranchers, Indians, and frontiersmen are depicted sympathetically, humanely, without ideological blinkers or idealization. His work contains moments of beauty and depth that remove it from the fetters of genre, as when the Pat Garrett-like shootist in The Day the Cowboys Quit (1971) helps to build a fence to protect the grave of a man he has lynched.

With The Day the Cowboys Quit, Kelton, in the words of his academic exegete Judy Alter, began to “use the western setting as a vehicle for studying mankind, rather than as an end in itself,” in novels that “are characterized thematically by the moral complexities wrought in men’s lives by change and stylistically by a narrative voice that speaks clearly of West Texas.” This gunfire-free novel is about a strike, of all un-Texan things, and is based on an 1883 incident in which cowboys in the Lone Star state’s Canadian River country rode off their jobs.

You might expect a morality play featuring sinister avaricious ranchers versus brave-hearted ranch hands, but that’s not Kelton’s way. His characters are not galloping cliches. The most bullying rancher makes a compelling defense of his position. And given that Kelton dedicates the book to, among others, the famously right-wing Texas historian J. Evetts Haley (author of the classic anti-LBJ volume A Texan Looks at Lyndon), The Day the Cowboys Quit is a poor fit for an AFL-CIO syllabus.

Rather, as in so many of Kelton’s novels, the reader catches the sough of “The Times They are a Changin’.” Independent cattlemen are giving way to “syndicates, Yankee bankers, English money, and all that.” The best of the cowboys live by a democratic, egalitarian code in which independence and honesty are valued more than any numbers that can be indited on a ledger, but their ranks also include chiselers, thieves, and the usual run of cowards, including one wretch who utters what, to Kelton, is that most self-damning of all statements: “There ought to be a law.”

The strike fails. The cowboys lost, as one supporter explains, because “we cheapened what we stood for when all we could agree to ask for was higher wages. We should have talked about dignity and freedom; those things count for more than money. Money’s soon spent, and when it’s gone it leaves no mark. But when a man loses dignity, that leaves a mark on him that stays.”

The camp cook, unwilling to leave his post, tells the reluctant leader of the strike, “We’re comin’ into a time when the individual don’t count for much, Hitch. You’d just as well get used to the idea.” To which Hitch responds, “Stand back and take it like a sheep? No, Trump, even if we lose, we need to fight and kick all the way to the slaughterhouse.”

But they do lose. Consistently, throughout Kelton’s major novels, the principled men who embody the classic American virtues kick all the way to the slaughterhouse. Kelton’s work has an elegiac quality, but he is not merely a mourner of things lost. “People think ranch life has been an island of stability in a sea of change,” he tells me. “It’s not that way. Without innovation it wouldn’t have lasted. The big trail drives that started after the Civil War were an innovation. Fences were an innovation. We have a far better marketing system than we used to have: driving cattle to Kansas is a pretty hard way to get to market. Nowadays we have country auctions scattered around small towns. A fellow has got a local market. On the other hand, there’s a lot more regulation than there used to be. We’re getting to be smaller and smaller cogs in bigger and bigger wheels.”

Kelton resists the temptation to write happy endings for men who do not accommodate themselves to the times. He is too honest, too much his father’s son, for that. “My dad told me the history of a lot of the ranches and ranch operators in the Midland-Odessa country,” says Kelton. “He knew most of them and cowboyed for a lot of them in his youth. No matter how funny Dad’s story was, it usually tended to end on a sad note. Invariably the rancher seemed to have gone broke eventually and lost it all.”

Ranching, he says, “isn’t always a good living, but it’s a good way of life.”

Taking life as it is

Another of Kelton’s memorably stubborn Texans is Wes Hendrix of The Man Who Rode Midnight (1987), with its rare contemporary setting. Wes is a wizened 77-year-old rancher who looks “more like Gabby Hayes than John Wayne.” Developers have Wes’s ranch in their sights, for it stands between them and their vision of a man-made lake that will flood the town with “recreational tourism” dollars. Even in those pre-Kelo days there is an inevitability to Wes’s failure; no matter how fiercely Kelton’s cowboys resist, they are “old men brittle like the dried-out stalks of last year’s corn, no longer able to bend, standing futilely against the winds of time that one day soon must break them.”

“My primary theme has always been change and how people adapt to it or don’t adapt,” says Kelton. Seldom in American history has the capacity for adaptation been tested as severely as it was during the desolating (and desiccating) drought that parched West Texas in the 1950s–the event that inspired The Time It Never Rained. “I could never have written it without my experience as a reporter,” says Kelton. “That drought was my daily running story as an agricultural writer for seven years.” He describes those who persevered through the long dry spell as “tough, resilient, and almost militantly independent.”

The Time It Never Rained is a great novel, and I do not limit that appraisal with the constricting adjective “Western.” The book’s subject is a Jonah-like rancher named Charlie Flagg, a “broad-shouldered man who still toted his own feed sacks, dug his own postholes, flanked his own calves” on middling acreage. Flagg lives by a simple credo: “I’m not sayin’ any man is wrong because he doesn’t pattern himself after me; what anybody else wants to do is his business, not mine. I just want to live by my own light and be left the hell alone.”

As the drought stretches from months into years, Charlie’s neighbors beg, lobby, and eagerly accept feed, checks, and hay from Washington. Charlie resists, telling the almsmen, “That ain’t the way I was brought up, or you either…. We was taught to believe in a man rustlin’ for himself as long as he’s able. If you get to dependin’ on the government, the day’ll come when the damn federales will dictate everything you do. Some desk clerk in Washington will decide where you live and where you work and what color toilet paper you wipe yourself with. And you’ll be scared to say anything because they might cut you off the tit.”

His contumacy is not rewarded. The other ranchers resent him for acting “like our own consciences talkin’ to us, tellin’ us how far we’ve strayed from what we believe in. Nobody likes his conscience naggin’ at him.” His son reproaches him as a relic, and a selfish one at that. Everything he has worked for turns to dust and blows away. Arid year follows arid year, yet still Charlie hangs on, selling off his cattle and buying lowly goats, cutting loose the Mexican family with which he has a complex and evolving relationship, and always rebuffing offers of government aid.

“I have heard Charlie described as a mythical character representing old-fashioned ideals of rugged individualism and free enterprise,” Kelton has said. “To me, there was nothing mythical about him. He was real.” (“My mother was convinced that Charlie was my father,” says Kelton.)

Kelton shuns the easy political point. The Time It Never Rained is not an Ayn Rand fantasy of a superman vanquishing his inferiors. Charlie is a man out of time, a ghost of an earlier America whose survival is uncertain in the brave new world aborning. He is an anachronism whose adherence to a vanishing code both dooms and ennobles him. He is a Democrat of the Grover Cleveland stripe as displayed in Cleveland’s message upon vetoing a $10,000 appropriation for seed grain to Texas during the drought of 1887: “Federal aid in such cases encourages the expectation of paternal care on the part of the Government and weakens the sturdiness of our national character.”

Kelton has described his own politics as “very independent,” which he translates to “very conservative though liberal in the racial area.” The legendary 10th Cavalry of black “Buffalo soldiers” was stationed at San Angelo’s Fort Concho, and Kelton has written of racial conflict and the beginnings of understanding. Yet he never ascribes modern attitudes to 1880s cowboys.

In Wagontongue (1972), Isaac Jeffords, a black cowboy in post-Civil War West Texas, is part of a ranching crew but apart from it as well, taking his meals on the wagontongue, aware of the unbridgeable gap between himself and the white men he rides with. Isaac and Pete Runyan, a skilled white cowhand who resents blacks, make a perilous journey together. They do not, as they would do if this were a movie of the week, become wisecracking ebony and ivory partners, Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones, but they do come to realize that each is a man, capable, possessing a certain dignity. The last thing Pete says to Isaac is, “I ought to’ve killed you a long time ago. You got a head as hard as a rock; you won’t listen to a damn thing a man tells you. You’re uppity, and you got a mean streak in you a yard wide. But I’ll give you one thing: you ain’t nobody’s pet. If there was any way you could bleach that black hide….”

To which Isaac responds, “Damn little chance of that, and damn little chance that you’ll ever change either. Looks like we just got to take each other the way we are.” Which is, just maybe, the first step on the winding path that leads to brotherhood.

The land and the man

Saturating Kelton’s work is his love of West Texas. Kelton is no flowery panegyrist of the tumbleweed; growing up amongst men who regard poetical expression as effeminate will stifle one’s urge to write odes to cacti. But he loves his land just the same. As he writes in The Day the Cowboys Quit, “Some people would never understand the hold this land could take on a man if he stayed rooted long enough in one spot to develop a communion with the grass-blanketed earth, to begin to feel and fall in with the rhythms of the changing seasons. There was a pulse in this land, like the pulse in a man, though most people never paused long enough to sense it.”

Buck Kelton, Elmer’s father, “never was totally convinced that I was making an honest living because there wasn’t a whole lot of sweat involved. That’s how he measured work–by whether you sweated or not.”

Writing 45 novels extracts its own measure of sweat. So, for that matter, does tracking down The Time It Never Rained. “The Western shelf is in the back of the store,” says Kelton. “You gotta hunt for it.”

Hunt for it. You’ll be glad you did. Elmer Kelton is a great American novelist–no “Western” modifier necessary.

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Bill Kauffman
Bill Kauffman was born on November 15 (also the birthday of Bobby Dandridge) in the otherwise forgettable year of 1959. He was an all-star Little League shortstop for the Lions Club Cubs but soon thereafter his talents eroded. After an idyllic childhood in his ancestral home of Batavia, New York, birthplace of Anti-Masonry, he was graduated from Batavia High School in 1977. He earned, more or less, a B.A. from the University of Rochester in 1981 and went therefrom to the staff of Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan, the only dairy farmer in the U.S. Senate. Two and a half years later he left Moynihan’s staff a bohemian Main Street anarchist who loved the Beats, the New England transcendentalists, early 20th century local colorists (Sarah Orne Jewett his Maine gal), cowpunk music, and the crazy old America. Neil Diamond and Karen Carpenter, too, but don’t tell anyone. He bummed around out west for a while, sleeping in bus stations and writing derivative poetry in Salt Lake City flophouses (nah, he’s not a Mormon, just a BYU fan) before an ill-starred year in graduate school at the UR. He took a seminar with Christopher Lasch and thought on it. In the spring of 1985 he flew west to become an assistant editor with Reason magazine. He had great fun in Santa Barbara with that crew of congenial editors drinking far into the night at Eddie Van Cleeve’s Sportsman’s Lounge, but in ’86 he flew east to become the magazine’s Washington editor. Always homesick, Kauffman persuaded his lovely and talented wife Lucine, a Los Angelena, to move back to Batavia in 1988 in what he called a “one-year experiment”—the year to be measured, apparently, in Old Testament terms. They’re still there—or, more accurately, five miles north in Elba (apt name for an exile!), where Lucine is Town Supervisor. She may well be the highest-ranking Armenian-American elected official in the country, at least until the voters of California send Cher to the U.S. Senate. Take that, Turks! Lucine and Bill have a daughter, Gretel, 17, who writes and acts and plays piano and French horn. Their lab mutt, Victoria, whose tail graces the accompanying photo, is now departed, to their sorrow, but a cat, Duffy, darts in and out of the house when the mood strikes. Bill is the author of nine books: Every Man a King (Soho Press/1989), a novel, which was recently rescued from the remainder bin by a New York Sun article proclaiming it the best political satire of the last century (the Sun thereupon set); Country Towns of New York (McGraw-Hill/1994), a travel book about God’s country; America First! Its History, Culture and Politics (Prometheus/1995), a cultural history of isolationism which Benjamin Schwarz in the Atlantic called the best introduction to the American anti-imperialist tradition; With Good Intentions? Reflections on the Myth of Progress in America (Praeger/1998), his worst-seller, a sympathetic account of critics of highways, school consolidation, a standing army, and the Siren Progress; Dispatches from the Muckdog Gazette: A Mostly Affectionate Account of a Small Town’s Fight to Survive (Henry Holt/2003; Picador ppb. 2004), a memoirish book about his hometown which won the 2003 national “Sense of Place” award from Writers & Books; Look Homeward, America: In Search of Reactionary Radicals and Front-Porch Anarchists (ISI/2006), which the American Library Association named one of the best books of 2006 and which won the Andrew Eiseman Writers Award; Ain’t My America: The Long Noble History of Antiwar Conservatism and Middle American Anti-Imperialism (Henry Holt/ Metropolitan/2008), which Barnes & Noble named one of the best books of 2008; Forgotten Founder: Drunken Prophet: The Life of Luther Martin (ISI/2008), a biography of a brilliant dipsomaniacal Anti-Federalist who warned us this was gonna happen; and Bye Bye, Miss American Empire (Chelsea Green/2010), a cheerful account of dissolution. Bill is a regular contributor to the Wall Street Journal and a columnist for The American Conservative. He has written for numerous publications, including The American Scholar, the Los Angeles Times Book Review, The Nation, Chronicles, the Independent and The Spectator of London, Counterpunch, Orion, University Bookman, and Utne Reader. He is vice president of the Genesee County Baseball Club, which owns the Batavia Muckdogs of the New York-Penn Baseball League. Come summertime, he can be found in the 3rd base bleachers at Dwyer Stadium. He is also active in the officerless (of course) John Gardner Society. Bill is more handsome than the photo on this site would suggest. See books written by Bill Kauffman.

10 COMMENTS

  1. Bill,
    Your piety never ceases to amaze and comfort me. I will write you a story about J. Evetts Haley soon; a Texan of stature comparable to Kelton’s. McMurtry, by the way, thieved most of his good ideas from Haley. And please include Louis L’Amour; I know he is not fashionable, but “Hondo” (and many others) is a great novel.

  2. Bill, Thanks so much for featuring Elmer here. I was saddened yesterday morning to wake up and read of his death in the Dallas paper. As you convey, he was a fine writer. I spent part of my youth in West Texas and went to graduate school at Texas Tech in Lubbock. I have known west Texas cowboys – ridden horses and roped steers with them. Elmer nails them with his character descriptions and the dialect, lingo, and humor are perfect. Many of the stories deal with social and/or personal change, as you mention. My favorite of these is “The Good Old Boys”. In my mind, it rivals “The Time it Never Rained” as Elmer’s best. It’s a tale of the conflict between the openness, freedom, and independence of late 1800’s cowboy life and the coming complex technological advances of the 1900’s. There is a scene where the lead character, a cowboy named Hewey Calloway, is expressing his concerns about the coming technoligical future that could be right out of Wendell Berry. This book was made into a fine TV movie with Tommy Lee Jones and Sissy Spacek, among others. It’s certainly worth seeing.

  3. Bill

    Great story on Mr. Kelton. As a fellow Texan, I saw him true Texas gentleman and fine writer in any genre. I read he has several books that were ready for publication when he passed away. Hopefully, they will be up to his high standards. He will be missed.

  4. I’m a British author of westerns. Using the pen name Jack Martin I publish with the Robert Hale LTD/Black Horse group. And Elmer Kelton was (is) an inspiration for anyone trying to write stories set in the mythical wild west but with an authentic edge. Elmer created wonderful characters and the backdrop to their adventures was vividly drawn. Reading his books was always fun – hey and isn’t that the best reason to read?

    Rest in Peace
    We honour your memory
    Gary Dobbs

  5. Bill, THANK YOU for one of the best pieces to appear in the days following Mr. Kelton’s death. He was a wonderful gentleman, and a writer WITHOUT PEER in West Texas.

  6. How do you keep a people down? You ‘never’ let them ‘know’ their history.

    The 7th Cavalry got their butts in a sling ‘again’ after Little Big Horn, fourteen years later, the day after the Wounded Knee Massacre. If it weren’t for the 9th Cavalry Buffalo Soldiers, there would have been a second massacre of the 7th Cavalry. Read the epic, “Rescue at Pine Ridge”, buy on Amazon, or major bookstores, i.e., Barnes & Noble, or visit web site, rescueatpineridge.com to purchase and read some more good Buffalo Soldier history. Spread the word.

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