Spurred West. Ian Neligh
since.”
As we talk, Shirley loads ammunition, putting primers in cases with wax bullets. Her fingers move with the type of secondhand nature that comes from having done a thing a thousand times before. David tells me the two of them took to the organization and, outside of the Marine Corps, he’s never encountered a more tight-knit group of people. Over the years their own involvement in the sport grew to where they were both helping to set up other groups under the organization’s banner.
“We started traveling around, helping people get started and helping matches run, and all of a sudden we got the reputation [of] ‘Well, Mongo and Wench, they’ll come down and help’—and we did,” David says.
Fastest Guns in the World
With one shooter trying to be the fastest, David says there are often rivalries that naturally form from one competition to the next, that often last years and go from state to state.
“A lot of smack talk,” Shirley agrees.
“Not bitter rivalries … but there are definite rivalries. There are rivalries that have gone on for years,” David says. “It’s called fast draw, but the thing about it is that target down there is a big equalizer. I don’t care how fast you are—if you can’t hit that target you’re not going to win a match.”
David admits that there are a lot of competitors who are faster than he is. “But up until just recently, I was sitting fifth overall in the world in points because I have had a good season up to date—and I’m fast enough that you can’t really lollygag. I’m not going to beat the fast shooters but I’m also known to have probably a 75 to 80 percent accuracy.” And that’s the issue. Someone can pull their gun and fire at just under the speed of light—but if they miss the target, then it’s all for nothing.
Fast draw competitors fire their guns during the Four Corners Territorial Fast Draw Championship in Pagosa Springs, Colorado. (Photo by Billie Diemand)
“I think the secret is: don’t overthink it,” David says. “Get your head out of the way. Let your reactions take over. Once you practice a little bit and you get that natural movement down, let that take over and let that control you. Don’t let your mind get in the way.”
Often competitors are in such a hurry to draw their firearm at the competition, they miss the target—again, and again, and again. The winning shootist needs only to hit the target three out of five times.
“Sometimes you get up there with a guy and you’re so intent, there’s this rivalry thing … you might shoot eight to twelve shots before somebody finally wins three,” David says. “Last year we had a group that went forty-seven shots—each opponent shot forty-seven times before we had a winner.” At the distance of twenty-one feet, if the pistol’s aim is even an eighth of an inch off, the bullet will miss the target.
Today David and Shirley dedicate most of their time to the sport, which essentially grew from the tales of Hickok’s own gunslinging prowess. Cowboy Fast Draw competitors are not alone in their romance of the Wild West and appreciation of period-appropriate costumes. There’s the similarly themed World Fast Draw Association; and for those interested in live rounds, there’s the Single Action Shooting Society or Cowboy Action Shooting, started in the 1980s, which also has competitors dress in Old West costumes. For enthusiasts who prefer their Wild West experience on horseback, there’s the Cowboy Mounted Shooting, where competitors shoot at balloons using birdshot in timed events testing both horse and rider. Cowboy Fast Draw competitions have gained popularity even in Japan where, because of firearm restrictions, contestants use specially made revolvers constructed of hard plastic, capable of only shooting blanks or plastic BBs.
Anywhere you go, wherever it is, with whatever spin or angle is added, the enthusiasm for the West still endures.
CHAPTER 4
THE MARCH POWWOW
Nearly two thousand Indigenous Americans representing about one hundred different tribes dance out onto the floor of the Denver Coliseum during the Grand Entry of the annual Denver March Powwow, each dressed in clothes significant to them and their tribe. Sitting in the stadium to watch the performers, I feel both profoundly humbled and amazed by the examples of intertribal dancing.
“There are approximately over five hundred tribes that are still here [in America],” an announcer says over the rhythmic beats of drums and music. “At one time there were tens of thousands of tribes. There are now only five-hundred-some recognized tribes—and each of them has a story to tell. The story of their creation and also the story of how we’re to carry on … We choose to live spiritually. We choose to live through humor, to laugh and to carry on because there are generations to come. There are many more generations to come.”
The men, women, and children dance past in a massive procession, their colorful regalia, feathers, and silver bells moving to the sounds of the drums and the dancer’s intricate motions. For forty-five years Native American dancers have gathered in Denver, Colorado, for the March Powwow to celebrate their rich and diverse heritage and to compete in dancing contests.
While the history of Native Americans in the West predates the time of the Old West itself by more than fifteen thousand years, their individual histories played a significant role in the time period for its literature and creation of the myth of the West. In my research I didn’t want to revisit the many accounts from that time period that were largely fictitious, racist, and used to justify war, rampant marginalization, and ultimately genocide against the region’s indigenous people. From the Trail of Tears to the Sand Creek Massacre, the treatment of America’s indigenous peoples is one of the most shameful parts of U.S. history. But Native Americans are also an integral part of the country’s future. The March Powwow is arguably one of the largest gatherings of American Indians in the Front Range area, and I wanted the opportunity to see this example of the modern-day West firsthand. Instead of trying to interpret what I see, as someone with a white-European background, I decided instead to find the event’s longtime executive director to understand more about the importance of the powwow and of one indigenous person’s experience growing up in America.
Hand-in-Hand
I meet Grace Gillette at a Denver restaurant after the powwow and sit down over a couple glasses of ice tea. She has a terrific sense of humor. In her seventies, Gillette can trace her lineage back to the famous Arikara chief Son of Star. Her tribal name is SwaHuux, and she was born and raised on the Fort Berthold Indian Reservation in western North Dakota, which is home to the Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara Nation. Gillette has organized the powwow for the past thirty years.
“When they started doling out the reservations, they put us on the same reservation as the Mandan and the Hidatsa,” Gillette tells me. “They put us on the same reservation … because of the three tribes that are there—Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara. The Mandan were practically wiped out by smallpox. It took a toll on the Hidatsa, and Arikara too. So in battling that disease it kind of pulled those three smaller tribes together, and so the government put them on the same reservation.”
Gillette remembers when her family moved to the community of Mandaree when she was very young. “The school wasn’t even finished,” Gillette says, explaining how new Mandaree was at the time. “I was in the first first-grade class. There were thirteen of us. There was probably seven of them who couldn’t speak English because it was a Hidatsa community and very rural, and so English wasn’t spoken in the home.”
Both of Gillette’s parents were of the generation that was taken from their homes and forced to go to a boarding school where they were punished for speaking their native language. “So English was spoken in our home but when their friends came over, or relatives, they all spoke Arikara. But of course children weren’t supposed to listen, so we were shooed out of the room,” Gillette laughs. “As long as I can remember, my father was a lay minister. He was a congregational minister, and so growing up the Christian beliefs and the Arikara beliefs were just