This is authentic. Bill Huntington’s salty account runs along on the runover heels of western experience. This is fact told by one of the last great artists – a story-teller of the corral dust school. This is the old west at work and play, told without sham or embellishment, rich in wit and understanding, packed with personality and a calm, naïve dignity. The “good men and salty cusses” built an empire. Not only did they build it, but they lived it – every minute of it. Bill Huntington was one of them. Climb down and meet the good men and the salty cusses. Rest for a spell in the company of the great, the near-great, and the least-of-all who saw the elephant, heard the owl hoot, and gave everything a business ride. They’re all here: the punchers, the wranglers, the nesters, the rustlers, the swampers, the freighters, the herders, and the madame of the house at Lander. They live again in these pages: the trail bosses, the packers, the card sharps, the house men, the remittance men, the squawmen, and the roundup cook who drove six horses for Barnum. They make their way once more: the drifters, the gunmen, the bronc stompers, the agency braves, the operators – large and small. This is authentic. Step down and meet the boys. As down-to-earth Americana, rich in bunkhouse laughter, “There Were Good Men and Salty Cusses” is a literary find. Family-prepared, fortunately lacking in the professional writing touch, this is one of the most cheerful happiest “publishing accidents” in Western letters.