Search the Community

Lessons Learned and Travelin' Tales I have a set of rules for our travels in cowboy shooting. There are certain places I simply will not stay. I will not stay at the Red River Inn—or any motel where the doors open to the outside. If the hotel or motel has a number in its name, I will not stay. If there are chairs or other furniture from the thrift store sitting outside the rooms, I will not stay. Never, ever take accommodation recommendations from Pony Soldier. Perhaps you're curious about the origin of these rules. If so, grab a cup of coffee—or a double whiskey—and read on. There once was a cowboy shooting range known as the Bar 3. The tales of the action and fun at that range are known far and wide, and for good reason. The matches were legendary, hosted by the legendary T Bone Dooley, whose highest priority was making sure everyone had fun. Folks who attended the annual Comin' At Cha planned their accommodations, meals, costumes, and entertainment all year long. What made the Bar 3 special was T Bone's remarkable ability to bring people together for a cause. I attended my first—and only—match at the Bar 3 for one of those benefit matches. Being new to the sport, I was still learning about cowboy shooting. Everyone welcomed me and encouraged me to relax and simply have fun. Most of those folks barely knew me before the final day of the match. By the end of that day, however, I had become infamous. Because the Bar 3 was located near the small town of English, Texas, accommodations were scarce. Clarksville was the nearest town with a motel. Please pay close attention to the word motel. It plays a central role in this tale. The Red River Inn, a small local establishment, offered a roof over your head, a bed, and an indoor bathroom—the bare necessities. It certainly wasn't a five-star hotel. In fact, I'm convinced the only stars it could claim were the ones on the police cars that regularly circled the parking lot. The nightly rate was low, and there was probably a good reason for that. The Red River Inn earned a permanent place on my "Do Not Stay" list. You may wonder how we ended up there. We blame Pony Soldier. His description, while admittedly vague, somehow failed to trigger any alarm bells in my head. We booked a room for two nights. When we arrived, the best thing I could say was that parking would be convenient. Picture a roadside motel straight out of the 1960s—a single-story building with rooms wrapped around the office on three sides. Each room had one door and one window. There was no swimming pool, no vending machines, and probably no refunds. We had no choice but to make the best of it. We took our key—with its bright orange, coffin-shaped plastic key tag—and unlocked the door to what would be our home for the next two nights. At first glance, the room appeared clean and utilitarian. The color scheme could best be described as Walt Disney on LSD. The carpet looked original to the building. The furniture appeared to have been rescued from at least five other hotels before they went out of business. The polyester bedspreads crackled as I ripped them off the beds and tossed them into the corner. I had no desire to inspect them under a black light. Some things are simply better left unknown. Fortunately, the sheets were clean and free of tiny livestock. By this point, I was already planning my revenge on Pony Soldier. Our first night passed uneventfully. We rested from the drive and prepared for a full day of shooting, shenanigans, and socializing. The match was everything I'd hoped it would be. I met many people who would become some of my dearest friends. T Bone knew exactly how to entertain a crowd of folks who loved playing cowboy, celebrating the Old West, and shooting. By the end of the day, we were exhausted. All we wanted was a hot shower and a good night's sleep. Sunday morning arrived, and it was time to pack the car and head home after the final day of shooting. Mind you, we had firearms and equipment that weren't about to be left in the car overnight, so packing took a while. It was barely daylight. Clarksville was still asleep. Birds had just begun their morning chorus. Everything was peaceful. Suddenly, the quiet was shattered by loud pounding on the door of the room next to ours. The motel manager was demanding that the occupants vacate immediately because the room had "not been paid for." His vocabulary became considerably more colorful after that, but I'll spare you those details. Moments later, the door swung open. Out staggered a gentleman in a state of partial undress, clutching what remained of a twelve-pack of bargain beer. He made a hasty retreat to the east. Seconds later, a woman—slightly more dressed but carrying an enormous purse overflowing with her worldly possessions—departed in the opposite direction. Meanwhile, the motel manager continued providing colorful commentary about their stay and suggestions regarding any future visits. Who knew Sunday morning checkout would include live entertainment? As it turns out, we weren't the only audience. Two fellow cowboy shooters, Rio Concho Kid and Ben Scalped, had witnessed the entire spectacle. The four of us stood there laughing while trying to finish loading our gear. It was a morning none of us would ever forget. Being both a storyteller and an amateur comedian, I simply had to share the tale with my newfound friends. So I did. Complete with sound effects. And pantomime. Our posse took considerably longer to finish the day's shooting because everyone kept laughing. The jokes multiplied with every stage as I regaled them with the unforgettable story of what became known as The Red River Rendezvous. Sadly, the Bar 3 has since closed. I hope someday someone will revive it and create new events worthy of standing alongside the legend of Comin' At Cha. Our friend Rio has also passed away. But like the Bar 3 itself, he lives on in the stories we continue to tell around the loading table, at the campfire, and wherever cowboy shooters gather to laugh about the adventures that happen between the shooting stages as much as the ones on them.