How the West Was Spun

"They're a little bunch of chickenshit pricks. Somebody took a swing at me. That's why I'm writing broadsides back at them," he says.

After an exhausting afternoon of picture-taking and answering annoying questions, Boyer good-naturedly accompanies his visitors to their car.

A brisk wind is blowing through the San Simon Valley, and long shadows are playing across the Chiricahuas.

Glenn Boyer waits for his visitors to get into their car, and then he reaches into his vest and pulls out a gun. With a grin, he points it at the car's front tire, then holds his pose long enough to have his picture taken.

Boyer is an original to the end.
"What am I?" he had been asked that afternoon, and he seemed thrown off by such a simple question. Then he grinned. "A great big old Western practical joker. A guy who really enjoys life, with a flair for storytelling, who just happened to get mixed up in a family of some people and felt it incumbent on me to retail to the public what I could remember.

"In an interesting fashion, mind you."