“…Whistle me back where I wanna be…” The theme from the old series Tombstone Territory kept playing through my head as the shuttle bus rolled along for “the town too tough to die”. Seeing as the town could never prove too tough for the likes of Mr. Robert Fuller, I decided at practically the last minute to grab the bull by the horns and get my butt down there. Wyatt just had to be that way? I don't know, yet I suspect I'd missed Kel Brackett so much that I simply had to take a doc holiday.

Oddly, the morning before I was to leave, I received a phone call from my dear old friend, Angelika. Disappointment prominent, she’d asked if no possible way existed for me to make it to the event. “Can you keep a secret?” I replied in hushed tones, “I’m going!” At which point she excitedly informed - at that very moment she resided in a Tombstone motel and we would meet up the next afternoon!

Around 3 PM, Thursday, July 1, 2004, I picked up my badge and packet at Schieffelin Hall, then checked into a charming little B&B, the Tombstone Boarding House. Should modern conveniences be nonexistent on one’s list - i.e. TV, phone, pool, clock - I highly recommend this quaint and friendly establishment. But who should pop in just as I was registering? None other than that German gal who seems to be making a habit of running all over creation. Nevertheless, a most happy reunion ensued.

After freshening up, we were off to the Welcome Reception at Six-Gun-City. It came as a big surprise that the festivities were to be held alfresco. Three long rows of picnic tables sat beneath awnings. Fortunately, the horse doovers and margaritas made up for a multitude of sins. Another bolt from the blue hit when we bumped into Mary and Nancy of FOTW fame. That’s how I learned of the bit of false advertising put forth by the event coordinators. The program had stated, “…allows attendees an opportunity to meet and chat with Celebrities and Authors.” Well, the Celebrities and Authors had been protectively ensconced in the one small restaurant, and Mary revealed that the authorities were not letting us peons approach.

As no water availed at the outside bar, I did manage to make my way inside to procure much needed H2O for Angelika. The long line and wait evolved into a lucky thing when Bob suddenly, unexpectedly wandered up near the bar and spotted me. Astonishment showing, he slammed a fist to the railing, first words erupting, “I knew it!” How did he know it? He didn’t really; just figured I’d be there. Relishing the lingering electric flush of my obligatory kiss, I calmed and worked through the jitters enough to chat a bit, until he had to continue working the room and my water was up.

Back outside, Angelika and I settled with our victuals and libations to watch the formal introductions, which included the esteemed personages of Melissa Gilbert, Bruce Boxleitner, Marty Kove, Buck Taylor, Ty Hardin, Dick Jones, Peter Brown, William Smith, Robert Horton, and Robert Fuller (to name a few). Naturally, our hero, Mr. Robert Fuller got the biggest ovation from guess which two.

The panel tribute, Friday morn, gave us interesting, informative fun. I’d never realized Mr. Earl Bellamy had done so much, even directing some Wagon Trains. When the producers of Phantom Hill sought a director, they’d inquired of Bob who immediately requested Mr. Bellamy. All praised him as a great man and a great talent. Unsatisfied with a scene or performance, instead of ranting and raving as some others would, he’d quietly take the actor aside, politely asking, “Why don’t we try it this way?” Such a professional, courteous approach endeared him to all coworkers.

Following the discussion, the stars were to be situated in several of the small shops throughout town. Peter Brown and Robert Fuller could be stumbled upon in the Red Buffalo, a typical, touristy store dealing in western knick-knacks and paraphernalia. Not the best set-up, cramping shoppers and autograph seekers alike - not to mention having to run all over to locate the shops hosting your favorite stars. Yet not at all daunting for these two staunch and determined fans!

Having accosted Bob in the Buffalo, he delineated further details of his new ranch. It must be a sizeable spread as he plans to have cattle, and he’s got someone to get the hay in. And then he said he might even sell some grass. In utter shock and horror I exclaimed, “But that’s illegal!” Thank God he laughed. He thinks I’m very funny. Unbeknownst to most, looks do fade - eventually. Next I showed off the adorable key chain crafted and sent to me by our own Twin Wranglers. Bob expressed his appreciation, thought it was wonderful, and stated, “Those twins, they’re just great!”

When it comes to shopping, I do believe Angelika could support the entire tourist industry all by her lonesome (I must have mentioned this before.). After her spree we bellied over to what would become my home away from home - the Crystal Palace Saloon. Resting aching dogs, quenching parched throats, I turned to the lone billiards game. A young couple had been monopolizing for some time, with the look of no end in sight. Darn! I’d wanted to play, to stand virgil over the pool table... earp, I mean morgan, whose abominable shots ended him up in the morgue an' he musta regretted that dead end. But, getting back to the shooting at hand, I simply hadn’t known that you could set up a quarter to challenge the winner.

I did have the good fortune to notice Bob’s son, Patrick, in conversation with a few of the good ol’ boy gunfighters. I’d first met this personable young man at the ‘99 L.A. Collectors Show. At that time, when asked if I could speak to him for a minute, he’d responded that if I ever saw him out on the street or ‘round about, I had only to grab his arm and haul him off somewheres. And so I marched to the table, hooked my arm in his, and dragged him up from his chair. To my everlasting delight, he remembered me and his prior oath, saying he’d go with me anywhere. I promptly assured I was just teasing, that I’d merely wanted to say hello.

Once more charging into the Red Buffalo, armed with the ammo that I could buy Bob a drink, we watched him pack his photos, then proceeded outside to the golf cart that would spirit him back to his hotel before returning him for our rendezvous. We strolled into the Palace, sat with Patrick, and waited. And waited… and waited… First time I’d ever been stood up by a Mega Star! Gotta love and forgive him - he’d thought we meant a different saloon! As though Big Nose Kate’s or any of the lesser drinkeries could measure up to the Palace! I did at least and finally get to shoot some pool, against Patrick, no less. And I won! Patrick is an excellent shooter, yet he swore he hadn’t thrown the game. And in all fairness, the next day he beat the living tar outa me, twiest in a row (although, bless his heart, offering the gallant admonishment that I'd been rushing my shots).

The time had come to get Angelika all gussied up for the big Casino Night. From top to bottom - feathered hat, boa, boustier, frilly black and pink dress, old-fashioned tie-up boot-like heels - what a super saloon gal she made! She looked fabulous and could easily have raked in two bits an hour at the bare minimum!

Along with the rest of the crowd, we squashed into the Bella Union Opera House, jam-packed with costumed folk and gaming tables. Once we’d nibbled from the fancy fodder and recharged our cocktails, chips in hand, we decided to try our luck. Who should we run into at one of the blackjack tables? Mr. Patrick Fuller. Chivalrously he condescended to help instruct Angelika on the preferable strategies. We hadn’t been doing too badly before we were forced to cash in. The charity auction would soon begin. Lacking sufficient funds (the story of my life) to purchase any of the items, we gave our credit slip to a nice couple and called it a night.

Ambling along toward my room, I happened upon a loaded golf cart at the gate. “Mr. Horton,” I cried as recognition dawned, “what are you doing here?” The small group had enjoyed a sumptuous repast at my quiet little boarding house and after stating as much Mr. Robert Horton queried, “What are you doing here?” My witty reply came back, “I live here.” I had to go around to greet Mrs. Horton, and then Mary and Nancy, and finally, seated in the rear, Mr. Fuller. Unsurpassed glee must have shown blatantly upon my face when he divulged they were headed to the Palace to shoot some pool. Did I want to come along? You think refusal reared anywhere in this picture? So Bob plopped me down and thus I rode back home.

A bit of trivia for you here - Bob is truly a magnificent pool player, utilizing that exquisite grace and finesse that comes across so prominently in all his performances. Don't ask how many times times he won or lost. It's incredibly hard to keep up your end of the conversation with one eye trying to concentrate on a table of gunslingers and the other Bobbing around all over the place. I never did get the chance to contest our hero, but in his study of my unconventional technique, he said he could tell I was good, that I knew how to shoot pool. Boy, did the peacock feathers fluff, puff, and splay! Until I lost to a ten year old girl! Twice!

On Saturday, the stars displayed their wares in the Bella Union. A closed square of tables in the main hall made for extremely congested outer areas; no chance for the celebs to step out for even a photograph. The cattle chute lines enabled you to move only when those ahead took a fancy. But at last I finagled my purchases and then Angelika and I squoze out. More shopping lay ahead, and the search for my long-lost Tombstone property.

No one seemed to remember Lew King or the Lew King Rangers Show, from where I purchased my one square foot of acreage (and where itty-bitty Wayne Newton got his start, by the way). Cost me a whole dime back in the mid ’50s. One historian in the old courthouse did recall such promotions, accommodating with directions to and a description of the general boonies-like area. I glanced to the far reaches - hills, cacti, dirt, rocks - miraculously, all desire to further investigate dissipated.

Since her induction into fancy-pantsed, saloon hall garb, Angelika could not live without the purchase of an elaborate, kick-up-yer-heels outfit. This our objective, we traipsed over to the Tombstone Mercantile where, in addition, Shoot magazine operated a fast draw contraption. Yours truly gave it a shot. 2.85 seconds. Not bad, eh? Uh, yeah. The proprietor claimed .6 or .7 was fast. For the life of me, I’d just purchased some more Tombstone property - up on Boot Hill!

Later relating my fast action to Patrick, he thought I’d done quite well. In similar L.A. escapades, he’d scored 2.8 or 2.9. “Horrible” was my first silent, hidden reaction, until he went on to explain that he’d had to hit six targets in that time frame, compared to my measly one. So much for the “V”elocity Kid!

Due to all our gallivantin’, I’d developed a powerful thirst. I could think of no greater relief than getting back home to drink my lunch. Original intent that afternoon had been to indulge ourselves in the reenactment of the shootout at the OK Corral. As luck would have it, Mrs. Fuller’s friends from Tucson chose to make their appearance in the Palace just prior. Bob sat, shot the breeze for a few, but then duty called. As I’d met this delightful couple at the previous FOTW, Bob asked if I’d take care of them in his absence (of about 20 minutes, or so said), see to their needs. I thoroughly enjoyed the time spent with Mrs. Fuller’s friends; however, 20 minutes came and went - no Bob, no OK Corral shootout. Angelika had promised to tape the excitement, yet she missed it too. The elusive entrance had somehow become confounded, indiscernible in the mists of time. Should she have had the presence of mind enough to ask, I could have told her that the enterprise stood right next to the Alright Corral, directly opposite the Better Than Nothing Corral. Ah well, at times it's hard to distinguish one pen from another.

That evening my chance finally came to speak privately with Bob. We sat on a bench outside the Palace where he gave approval of the new Robert Fuller Fandom. What a thrill to be acknowleged and accepted. No holds barred, Bob completely loves and appreciates his truly devoted fans. Consequent to the granting of his magnanimous nod, the pretofore nervous wings of my heart soared.

Sunday morn. A day for oversleeping. And I could double kick myself for it!!!!!!!! I arrived too late to witness Bob signing his square of wet cement, to gingerly place his hands amidst the sticky goo. Not to moan and gripe, we did get photos of the resultant squiggles and doodles later. A few more pix and sigs from outside the confines of the Red Buffalo and then the agenda called for the Laramie episode being premiered in Schieffelin Hall, ‘Mark Of The Manhunter’ in which James Coburn plays a semi-bad guy. Bob had time for only a few questions afterwards, but said he’d really enjoyed working with Jim.

In reply to my query of why modern westerns paled in comparison to the old, he enlightened, “Most current actors can’t even spell ‘horse’.” Also, even the working horses these days are not properly trained to stand still, nor are they amply acquainted with gunfire. When filming Bonanza; The Next Generation, Bob found it necessary to step down from his mount so that a wrangler could work with the animal - pistol, rifle firing, etc. - for about thirty minutes. In his opinion, few good western scripts abound nowadays, although he praised works of Clint Eastwood, Kevin Costner, and the movie Open Range.

Delving into his more recent roles, he highlighted JAG and Walker. But then, to my utter dismay, he actually came right out and spoke that despicable “R” word. Right in front of God and everybody! Something will simply have to be done about that! One gentleman then asked a few details concerning Bob’s regiment in Korea. Turned out they served together! “We have to talk,” Bob said to the man.

The next morning, Angelika and I breakfasted at my boarding house along with two amiable ladies and the son-in-law of Ben Traywick, the local Tombstone historian. The ladies had been speaking of their elation over meeting Ms. Stella Stevens when the gentleman chipped in, “Then you’ll probably be thrilled to know that I got a kiss from Stella Stevens right here,” and he pointed to his cheek. Angelika and I shared the fact of our greatest hero, and once more the man chirped, “Then you’ll probably be thrilled to know that I got a kiss from Robert Fuller right here,” again pointing to the same cheek. All ‘round knowing grins elicited the response, “Or maybe you wouldn’t.”

The time had come for sorrowful farewells - Angelika to continue her gadding about and I to hop on my homeward shuttle. Would that those fun-filled days could have gone on forever. Yet the flame of memory burns eternal in my breast, priceless treasures of reminiscence. As for Mr. Robert Fuller, God bless him for the generous sharing of himself, for being so ultra-giving and caring.

What do I want on my Tombstone? A dash of Robert, a sprinkling of Bob, a pinch of Patrick, and a gluttonously Fuller commemoration of all those glorious days spent luxuriating in the shadow of my hero’s sublime presence. Brings to mind lyrics from another appropriate old Tombstone-related theme - "Long live his fame, long live his glory, and long may his story be told."

Vernette Goats.

July 2004.

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