One of the most memorable gigs of the BHB was a trip somewhat out of the ordinary — to Dodge City.

People the world over know about Dodge from the long-running TV show “Gunsmoke.” From roughly a year before I was born until the year the BHB formed (1955-1975) Marshall Dillon, Miss Kitty, Festus, and Doc Adams were a powerhouse in TV ratings — the longest running network TV series at the time, and it was exported to every country on the globe that had TV sets.

The town made the most of their (fictional) fame. Dodge was — and probably still is — a tourist trap based largely on the TV show as well as the myths and legends of the “old west.”

However, I doubt that people are still talking about the weekend when The Bunk House Boys rode into town.

We were not on stallions or even geldings. We convoyed into town with a few vehicles (I can’t remember if we had our bus at this time.) The lineup was the same one in the picture on my Bunk House Boys web page — Ron Bailey on drums, Barry Green on lead guitar, Gary Mater on pedal steel guitar, Craig on bass, and me playing rhythm and singing. The time was the late 1970s.

The drive was an easy 95 miles. I remember Barry took his own car down, along with his wife and puppy. They had a station wagon, and Barry laid down in the back with his double-neck guitar and put on new strings — which might have made an amusing video if we had such technology in those days.

And now — over 40 years later — I can’t really remember if we had our bus at the time (a converted 1956 Chevrolet school bus with four bunks, a kitchenette, and a potty), or if Gail Bailey or Gloria Collier went with us. I don’t think the ladies were along — for reasons which will be clear by the end of this tale.

The gig — Friday and Saturday nights — was at a roadhouse dive bar called Tom & Jerry’s or Mutt & Jeff’s or something like that. We arrived in the afternoon and went by the place to see if we could set up the equipment. Before we had the bus, Dave Collier hauled our gear in a custom-made trailer that was formerly the rear-end of a pickup truck, so that might have been how we got everything to the gig.

We pulled up at the bar and went inside to see what awaited us. In our five years together, The BHB played some real holes — but this one took the cake.

The stage was up against a wall that looked like all the paneling was taken off of it — and replaced with tin foil! The electrical outlets were bare — no decorative fixture plates around them, just sticking out of holes in the wall. I could easily imagine this being my final performance, ending in a shocking finale.

In addition — the stage was filled with the gear from the previous night’s band. As we scouted for somebody to instruct us (or warn us to run for our lives), the previous band arrived and started tearing down their equipment. They had an open trailer behind a car — it looked like a welder’s mobile rig — and were tossing things into it. No equipment cases, they just disassembled the drums and dumped them in along with amplifiers and loudspeakers and mic stands. At least they cleared the way for us.

We set up, plugged in and were testing the sound, when Gary (who always had an eye for and a line for the ladies) brought a couple of young things up to the stage. He proceeded to point us out to the girls (his way of introductions, I guess).

“He’s married so he’s not putting out. He’s single so he’s putting out. He’s single so he’s putting out. He’s … “

(Craig and I were the only single guys there — I don’t think Ron and Gail were married, and I don’t think Gloria Collier came along on this trip.)

It was a new kind of billing for me … I didn’t know how to respond.

We went to our motel and quickly established that Craig and Wade’s room — the bachelor quarters — were party central. We filled the bathtub with ice and dropped in multiple cases of beer (after all — what is a bathtub for?). By the end of our weekend, the bathtub was filled with cardboard pulp that had disintegrated in the melted ice water. After all, we had to keep the bathtub well-stocked — our reputation depended upon it.

The gig went OK — it was a normal gig. But what I remember is that afterward (the first night), Craig decided he wanted to spend some time after the gig with a young lady who struck up his acquaintance during one of the breaks. I went back to our motel room alone. It was late, I had not met any girls to occupy my time, and I had to catch up on my beer consumption, because playing guitar and singing for four hours doesn’t let you keep up the pace you want to establish while drinking.

I slept soundly and securely — the motel had a security chain lock besides a deadbolt, and I had a nightcap or two or ten to usher me into a deep sleep.

But something was annoying me. Maybe bugs. I brushed my face in a groggy half-sleep, and felt something else against my hair. Then more little bumps — and a hissing sound. I realized that someone was whispering my name.

It was Craig. He had a room key, but the door would only open a few inches because of the chain lock. Being the creative type, he decided to pitch pebbles at me to wake me up. He didn’t want to raise his voice and disturb other occupants of the motel.

Since I was solidly asleep, it took quite a few pebbles and hisses to awaken me. In fact, the bed had more gravel in it than the parking lot. But finally I got up and let Craig in the door. He wasn’t real happy about my security arrangements — he felt I could have been safe enough with the deadbolt and skipped the chain.

I asked him why he was back — I thought he was spending the night with his new friend. He said she was so drunk she passed out about the time they got back to her place, so he left and came back to our motel.

So much for the tales of wild groupies and orgies on the road.

The Bunk House Boys finished the 2-night gig at the dive bar and we were never invited back — but I don’t think that reflected negatively on our performance. At least we weren’t tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail — or even thrown in the hoosegow with the desperadoes — or worse yet, buried on Boot Hill.

No, I think we got out of Dodge relatively intact, pocketed a few bucks for our work, and headed down the road to our home base to get ready for the next exciting adventure in Outlaw Country Music.

And that’s the legend of The Bunk House Boys.