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Memoirs of an Old Duckboy

As told by Spud Fisk, the "Toughest Old Coot in the Bitterroot"
Drawings by Mike Gouse

I was on the last big duck roundup and trail drive in Western Montana. It was 1923. Me, Soapy Swanson, and 25 other duckboys drove 16 thousand quackers from Lima north to the NP railhead at Twin Bridges. Folks along the way could see the dust for five miles and hear the quacking for ten. Being a duckboy was always dirty work, especially at branding time. You never could get the stink of burning feathers out of your clothes.

Crossing the Beaverhead River was quite a trick. Once you get cattle in the river they'll just head for the other side. But ducks ...they'd just as soon float downstream. Took us a whole day to cross the Beaverhead and round up the strays.

One night we camped outside Dillon under a full moon. The flock was pretty restless anyway, but then this yahoo from town came driving out in a Sears Roadster. When he shut that thing down, it cut loose with a backfire that sent the whole flock into a full stampede. Before we could get on our ponies and head em off, they'd stampeded down Main Street, waddled through every garden in town, and were terrorizing the inhabitants of the State Normal College. It took us all night to round them suckers up. There wasn't a garden in Dillon that survived. The streets were a mess. There were even feathers on the arc lights.

I had an old pony named Shorty. I guess most duckboys named their ponies Shorty. Duck ponies are a breed apart. You don't see them around anymore. They were strong and husky, but short-legged, so you could get close to your work. Guys used to say that duck ponies were a cross between an Appaloosa and a basset hound. A feller's boots would take a real beating from rocks and prickly pear and sagebrush, because your feet rode so close to the ground.

When we'd loaded the whole flock into rail cars and sent them east, we got together with duck drovers from Twin Bridges and Whitehall, and even the gang from the Quack Quack Cafe in Melrose, for a rodeo. Soapy Swanson and I took second in team roping. I caught that sucker around both wings in four seconds flat. Then I won first place in drake wrestling. I've still got the bite marks to show for it.

I liked being a duckboy, but I wasn't too sorry when it ended. I'd meet a gal in town and say "Howdy," but she'd smell feathers and she'd cross the street just to avoid me. Those days are gone forever. Just as well.