King's Corner: The Short Career of Tex

Hurry up and wait. Freight trains are rather good at that. And when you're 16 years old, hiding aboard one in late winter, the waiting can be considerably less enjoyable than the hurrying.

In late February 1943, my father, Mark King, spent nearly a week traveling from Colorado to Houston in freight cars. It was cold, uncomfortable, and filthy. Soot from the locomotive settled over everything, including Mark, until he blended rather well with his surroundings. That proved useful when railway employees walked through the yards inspecting the cars. Looking respectable would have been a disadvantage.

But the cold and soot weren't the worst part. Mark couldn't forget the little yellow dog he'd befriended along the way. He'd left it in the care of the railway switchman who bought his horse, but its cries as the train pulled away stayed with him. He felt guilty about leaving the dog, and hoped that reaching Houston and competing in the rodeo would somehow make it all worthwhile.

He had traded an uncomfortable saddle for an uncomfortable train. At least the saddle had been warm.

Reaching Houston, Mark still had to slip out of the railway yards unnoticed. He hadn't enjoyed a proper bath in days, had almost nothing to his name, and needed somewhere to sleep. I wonder what the people at the YMCA thought when this soot-covered, 16-year-old stranger appeared at their door, looking for somewhere to sleep.

A year earlier, he'd arrived in Houston under very different circumstances. His friend Ken was beside him, Ken's family lived nearby, and the two young cowboys had exciting opportunities ahead. They had companionship, plans, and every reason to believe the coming months would be memorable.

Now Mark was alone, nearly penniless, without a horse, and wondering how to recover a dream that had gone badly wrong.

He'd left Wyoming intending to ride 1,500 miles to compete in the Houston Fat Stock Show and Rodeo. Unfortunately, he'd exchanged a comfortable saddle for a beautiful new one that made riding increasingly painful. After hundreds of miles, he could go no farther. He sold his horse and saddle, found a freight train heading south, and hoped for the best.

Mark was 16, and this was becoming the year he made his own decisions. Some were courageous. Some were resourceful. Others were spectacularly unwise. He was discovering that being free to make a decision didn't necessarily mean he knew how to make a good one.

But he was willing to learn.

Throughout the journey, Mark had been praying that God would help him find a way to keep his dream alive. He still wanted to compete in the rodeo, beginning March 19, but first he needed a bed, food, and money for entry fees.

He found inexpensive accommodation at the YMCA, then went looking for work. A large department store needed help, and Mark accepted the job. He'd worked cattle, ridden horses, and lived alone in remote country. Working in a store wasn't what he'd imagined doing in Houston, but it offered a chance to begin again.

Gradually, life began coming together again. He had somewhere to stay, money coming in, and friends among his coworkers. After closing, the young employees often gathered in the locker room to collect their coats before going out together. Mark enjoyed their company, and they welcomed him into the group.

God had been answering his prayers in ordinary ways. Mark was grateful, but he apparently thought the arrangement could be improved.

Mark was an experienced cowboy. He'd worked ranches in Wyoming and Australia and ridden with professional rodeo men. But his coworkers knew him as a sixteen-year-old department-store employee who had arrived with very little.

He decided he needed a more impressive identity.

He would become “Tex.”

It was an excellent name for a cowboy. It suggested wide-open spaces, experience, and a man who knew his way around a horse. Mark possessed much of the experience already. All he needed was the name.

Unfortunately, nobody had thought to give it to him.

So he gave it to himself and began encouraging his coworkers to use it.

Dad was never afraid to try something new, or to acknowledge when an experiment hadn't gone as planned. And this experiment was approaching its conclusion.

One of the young women at the store was beginning to take an interest in him. One evening, as the employees gathered in the locker room before going out, she turned toward Mark with her coat in her hands.

“Would you help me put on my coat, Tex?”

Someone snickered. Someone else giggled. Then the entire locker room erupted in laughter.

Apparently, hearing that carefully cultivated nickname spoken aloud was all it took. Mark had hoped to impress his friends. Instead, he'd provided the evening's entertainment.

And he laughed right along with them.

That was the end of Tex.

Dad loved telling that story. He'd accomplished extraordinary things by 16, yet never pretended he'd known everything. He was learning to make decisions for himself, sometimes paying dearly for mistakes and sometimes escaping with nothing worse than embarrassment.

He'd arrived in Houston filthy and nearly penniless, praying that God would help him find a way forward. Before long, he had a bed, a job, and friends who enjoyed his company.

God had provided what Mark needed to begin again.

The nickname was entirely Mark's idea.

And Tex, as it turned out, wasn't needed at all.

Jeff Headley is pastor of the Dayton Valley Community Church, and a storyteller who blends humor, honesty, and hope. His weekly column reflects on resilience, grace, and the surprising ways faith shows up in ordinary life. Mark King, whose adventures are recounted in this series, was his father.