WATFORD CITY, N.D. — There’s a legendary story that has been passed around these Badlands for several generations. Many North Dakotans who follow oral history or who are interested in the lore of the region may have heard it in one form or another — tales like these tend to linger.
And this one has been told and retold since 1894, when a dead cowboy fell from the rafters of an old blacksmithing shop and into the middle of a poker game, sending cards and unsuspecting cowboys flying.
It’s the story of Poker Jim, a cowboy who worked for Pierre Wibaux’s large W-Bar outfit. Poker Jim’s real name has not been passed along in the retelling of the story, but his love for gambling and whiskey colors his character in the recounting of his untimely death in a blizzard on a 65-mile ride from the Hay Draw line camp along the north bank of the Little Missouri River to fetch supplies in Glendive, Montana, after provisions at the camp had run low.
When he didn’t make it back after several weeks, the men from the line camp found him near a large rock, frozen to death after what seemed like an attempt to build a fire. Because the ground was too frozen for a proper burial, the cowboys decided to store his body in the rafters of the blacksmithing shop until spring, but failed to tell the new crew in a personnel change.
And so the new crew was unaware when they gathered for a poker game, lit a fire, and started passing the bottle around, that Poker Jim’s body was above them, thawing out with each passing minute, waiting to make a grand entrance into the game.
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The drama, theatrics and characters in this story have held in my gut as ripe for a song for years. It has everything a proper folk song needs — originating among the people of our region through generations, and existing in several versions — all it needed now was a rhyme and a tune.
Anyway, maybe it’s the long winter or the recent gathering of cowboy poets that inspired me, but yesterday I sat down with a mission to make Poker Jim’s story into a song. I think he deserves it, after all these years of entertaining us around campfires and potluck suppers. I plan to record this in the spring and will likely share a sneak peek in a few places soon.
But until then, enjoy it here in poem form, understanding that in the proper retelling of a story in this form, there’s a certain amount of exaggeration and liberties taken while working to staying true to the heart of it.
The Legend of Poker Jim
Way down in the Badlands
Before the land was tamed
Ran a band of cowboys
And the cowboys ran the game
In line camps and shacks
And the old blacksmithing shop
After long days on the trail
They’d gather up to take their shot
So sit down, I’ll tell a story
A legendary one
‘Bout how a hard-gambling cowboy
in death, he had his fun
It’s true, you won’t believe it
But I tell you that it is
The way my grandpa told it
And his grandpa’s daddy did
They’d say the Dead Man’s Hand
Is the Dead Man’s Hand
Place your bet on the cowboy
But the dealer’s always the land
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On the W-Bar Ranch
He earned $25 a month
The rest he made on cards
Or lost drinking too damn much
You’d never dream a greener summer
Or a sun that beat as hot
It could make a man forget
Just what the winters brought
And what it brought was cold
And months of drifting snow
In the Hay Draw by the river
Supplies were running low
So Jim, he saddled up
And headed three days for the town
Stopping along the trail
To drink some whiskey down
They say the Dead Man’s Hand
Is the Dead Man’s Hand
Place your bet on the cowboy
But the dealer’s always the land
Just up from Smith Creek
They found him frozen to a rock
They took his body to the rafters
Of the old blacksmithing shop
When the ground was warm
They planned to lay the man to rest
But failed to tell the crew
Coming new in from the west
And those boys, they dealt the cards
Just like the boys before
They lit themselves a fire
Blind to what was in store
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Because up above their heads
That stiff body took to thaw
And dropped heavy on the table
In the heat of five-card draw
They say the Dead Man’s Hand
Is the Dead Man’s Hand
Place your bet on the cowboy
But the dealer’s always the land
Now way down in the Badlands
These days the land is claimed
And up along the ridgeline
The rock it bears his name
But through the years it’s told
This part remains the same
Not even death could take
Poker Jim out of the game
A cemetery is named for Poker Jim in the Badlands near Grassy Butte, where, years after his death, friends of his moved part of the rock where he was found up to his grave to mark it.
If you want more details on this story or to hear a proper retelling from an elder from McKenzie County, visit Prairie Public’s online archive and search “Poker Jim.” It was from there, and the retellings from community members, that I got the details for this piece.
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Greetings from the ranch in western North Dakota and thank you so much for reading. If you're interested in more stories and reflections on rural living, its characters, heartbreaks, triumphs, absurdity and what it means to live, love and parent in the middle of nowhere, check out more of my Coming Home columns below. As always, I love to hear from you! Get in touch at jessieveeder@gmail.com.
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