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Bud started the farm by renting, and later buying, the allotted acres from his mother. She had her hands full trying to keep the family of nine children alive. Then he stopped milking cows and started raising cattle. His father was caught trying to steal horses and was sent to prison. An arid climate, subzero winters and rocky soil spoiled many dreams.

The painting hasn't been moved in years, and it never will be if Bud has anything to say about it. Below it rests an urn containing her ashes. Even though he has retired from working on the farm, Bud LaCounte only wears cowboy boots. A time when his oldest child, Larry, still wanted to be a cowboy. It was his way of supporting her.

After that, Bud added another acres to the farm, and from there, things moved quickly. They would have to go without that year. He stares at a painting of the farm on the opposite wall. The gold fillings in his teeth catch the sunlight pouring in through the window. The farm grew from a few hundred acres, to more than 2, by He sold most of the land when he retired, along with the cattle and the machinery. They'd have to rely on the milk cows for extra money.

Bud grins as he points to a notepad on the floor. It would take Bud years to make something of his mother's land. It could haul bushels of grain and she was expecting to fill it up. Larry says his parents were thrifty and cautious not to overspend on indulgences.

Bud's right hand shakes a little as he points to the floor. When his older daughter, Linda, still followed her mom around the kitchen while his younger daughter, Cynthia, hung onto the fence, taking in every move her father made. Bud told her it was keeping her alive and under no circumstances would she stop. He has seven in his collection, all scattered around his home at any time. He's writing a book, he says, his history. She was sitting next to him in the car, arguing with him about her medication. He likes to remember a time when the farm was green and cattle milled around the crowded feed yard.

He prefers to remember good days and good harvests.

He says he got tired of chasing after it after forgetting it on the tractor, in the car, in the house or with the neighbors. He drove from the car wash to the nearest dealership and bought a new Mercury Marquis in another color. The field was ruined. Venice just cried.

Bud never liked to talk much about himself, but Larry says he's opened up in the last year. They were driving back from Branson, Mo. Her health had turned and they knew she didn't have long to live. This, like every other tragedy in their lives, would pass and things would get better.

His cowboy boots squeak as he rocks back and forth in his overstuffed tan recliner. Minutes later she was dead. This couldn't stop them.

He's a cowboy, though without the hat. The operation was small and mostly run by the family.

It was still early in the morning and they had more work to do. Bud composed himself and turned back down the hill on his farm near Bainville in Montana's northeast corner. Several Chippewa families, including the LaCountes, got allotments in eastern Montana after white settlers had laid claim to land they wanted. The car is the only thing that's changed since Venice died.

Willard "Bud" LaCounte rarely cries. Bud LaCounte found a pocket watch on a railroad tracks near the Fort Peck Reservation more than 70 years ago when he was The watch has travelled with Bud from the beaches of Normandy to the fields of his ranch in Bainville. When she died, something in Bud died too.

This pair is one of his favorites and the pair he wears out dancing with his friends on the weekends. One hundred acres of wheat flattened during the night by an early September hail. Behind his glasses, his eyes begin to water, but he purses his lips and rocks a little faster in the chair. On a recent spring afternoon, Bud rocks slowly in his recliner in his home in Billings, remembering the worst day on the farm. He stood in shock next to the combine on top of the hill.

It was making her hair fall out and she wanted to stop taking it. And he knew how much it was going to hurt. Compounding that, for nomadic Indian tribes, there was no farming tradition. Bud LaCounte sits in his favorite recliner chair next to the mantle where a portrait of Venice LaCounte, the woman to whom he was married for 67 years and three days, is displayed.

His fingers are long and gnarled. Most of his memories are with Venice. Bud assured her it would be all right. If anybody is going to farm the land, they're going to have to start from scratch, like Bud and Venice did. He explained what happened, that the golden wheat that stood two feet high across the field just yesterday was reduced to a muddy mess during the night. He knew they'd get through it. Bud's mother and father had acres each but the landscape was harsh and the climate brutal.

Other than that, not much has changed since he retired.

Conditions were harsh for farmers on the Great Plains, Indians and immigrants alike. Farming was out of the question for his mother. It takes him a minute to recall the details; he's not one to dwell on the negative. He felt the dread welling up in his chest, but he didn't cry. The LaCounte family has been someone many hardships since their Chippewa ancestors were forced onto the tiny Turtle Mountain Reservation in northern North Dakota in After the Dawes Act gave enrolled tribal withs acres each, with the intent of making them into farmers and phasing out the reservations, Turtle Mountain could accommodate tonight a fraction of the enrolled members.

He knew he'd have to tell her. She collapsed in the passenger seat of their Mercury Marquis. Surrounded by darkness, he glanced over at her seat and saw her sitting there. View Gallery. Bud isn't sure how he managed to succeed, to take a acre allotment and turn it into an interesting Bainville successful farming and ranching operation, where others, including his mother and father, failed. He expanded his crop fields and hired a few people to help out as needed. Over the next few years, Bud was able to save up enough money to purchase a neighboring allotment.

They were married for 67 years and three days. Venice LaCounte, his wife, was driving up the dirt road in their truck. He braced himself and went to meet her. His veins stick up beneath his skin and run like snakes up his hands, disappearing beneath the cuff of his striped blue button-down shirt. He made her promise to call the doctor when they got home. About a week drink her death, Bud was taking the car through the wash.

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