My cowboy days started in 1945 when my Grandma Janes gave me my first gun and holster set. A white leather single holster fitted with a Hubley Texan Jr. pistol and wrist cuffs to match the holster. Both holster and cuffs were decorated with chrome studs and red glass jewels. On Christmas morning the thrill of receiving such a wonderful gift from my grandmother was so great that the color of the leather didn't bother me a bit. If the good guys wore white hats, why not a white gun belt? It wasn't until we moved from Rockford, Illinois to Indianapolis, and I met the other cowboys and cowgirls in the neighborhood that I discovered that the only other white set being worn was by the cute cowgirl two doors down the street. It took a few strong words and the threat of a folded five in the nose to convince my new friends that a tuff cowboy could wear a white holster set.

As anyone who ever played cowboys knows there were certain things that had to be understood prior to starting. The one universal rule was when you were shot you had to count to ten slowly and then you were a new man. For those that couldn't count, well they just laid there for awhile. Being shot was a huge part of the fun. It was then that you could demonstrate your best act of dying. An argument usually ensued as to who was the best. The other thing that had to be clarified was a description of the imaginary horse you were riding as well as the saddle. Mine in most cases was a golden Palomino with a long flowing tail and mane and fitted with a black saddle and bridle that was adorned with silver studs and dripping stirrups. Of course your horse was high spirited and as you described him you were dancing in place, kicking up as much dust as you could while you reined in your mount. The younger boys that couldn't come up with a description on their own were helped with a brief account by the big guys of seven and eight. A brown nag with a brown saddle and, of course, their horses were slow. This usually led to an uproar of laughter by those of us riding the stallions.

Our house backed up to Fall Creek and a steep hill dropped from the backyard to about an acre of land before you got to the creek. This area was referred to as The Valley. With tree-lined dusty trails running along the creek, it was the perfect place for an ambush or robbing the stagecoach. The stagecoach was a Radio Flyer wagon with a wooden box tied on with a rope. The strongbox was an old lunch box filled with rocks.

Going to town was a hard ride through The Valley and up the hill, through the backyard and across the street to the alley. The garages in the alley were our western town. Most of the garages were only three or four feet apart. With trees and their branches in close proximity to the garage roofs, we could shimmy up the trees and out on the branches to the garage rooftops. Once there we could go from one rooftop to another during our gun fights. This lasted until we were discovered by a garage owner and were forced to gallop back to The Valley with guns blazing and hooting and hollering.

Saturdays were special, because the Zaring Egyptian Theater, two blocks away, had the Saturday matinee which was usually a western. We would saddle up and gallop down the dusty trail and across the bridge on Collage Avenue to Fall Creek Boulevard and then West on the other side of the creek along the trails of the park to Central Avenue where the Zaring was located. It was mandatory to check your guns at the cloakroom where you were given a brass coin with a hole in it. To lose this coin would mean losing your gun holster set forever. After a thrilling western adventure and popcorn, we'd pick up our hardware at the cloakroom, and it was back down the trail reenacting the adventure we had just seen.

Willie Nelson said in song, "All of my heroes were cowboys..." and it was true for me as well. Tom Mix, Buzz Barton, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry—all lived by the cowboy code and we kids tried to live by that code too, at least when it was convenient or we were reminded by our parents.

I never outgrew my love for the life of a cowboy or having cap guns which I still collect today.

— Tom Janes

STILL A COWBOY!