July 2019 8 THE OLD STORYTELLER The Legendary “White Bird” In my travels, I have been blessed in many ways, the least of which has been my being allowed to meet many wonderful and interesting people along the way. Bill Haught was just such a person that I was privileged to know. We were both members of that wonderful fraternity known as musicians, as well as both being writers. I couldn’t paint a lick but Bill sure could. We spent many enjoyable hours talking about all those things. In addition, we also filled a great amount of time talking about another subject we both loved dearly... Arizona and her history. Bill is no longer with us, however many of his paintings can still be seen around the area. Stories about him and the Haught family abound as they are very much an integral part of our Arizona history. William Richard Haught was born on the 7th day of February 1931, in Payson, Arizona. These were hard times in a hard country. Soon to become artist and musician, “Billy” Haught would carry on the proud if not legendary heritage of the pioneer Haught family, as well as any man could—better than most. Billy later became known as “White Bird,” a name that stuck with him to the end of his life. For years people have asked me how Bill had come about the name White Bird. The way he explained it to me was that he had adopted the name from Chet Farris, who was a World War I Indian scout. Chet Farris was also a musician. At an early age, Bill played music with Chet’s son. One day Chet (who was known as White Bird) impressed with the young Bill told him to use the name when he was finished with it. When his old Indian friend died, Bill Haught did just that—he became White Bird. Bill Haught got started on his two careers, music and painting, very early on. At the age of five, he sang on Payson’s local radio station and won an amateur talent contest. He received five dollars worth of merchandise from a local store as his prize. Six years later he began to paint. How that came about is a story in itself. Bill’s grandfather, Anderson Lee “Babe” Haught, was a guide for Zane Grey. While Bill had met Zane Grey a few times as a boy, he couldn’t remember him all that well. Even so, he related how he did remember some of the stories Mr. Grey told. Zane Grey became an inspiration for the young Bill Haught to paint— Grey filled his books with vivid word distractions and adventure—Bill painted with vivid colors and excitement. It didn’t take long before Bill realized Payson would not be able to support him as an artist. Bill was the first to tell you that he was a terrible painter back then. He believed people only bought his work because they felt sorry for him. Looking for a way out, around his 16th birthday Bill joined the Navy. He figured he was leaving the area for good, but after his discharge, Bill found himself back in Arizona. Since he still could not make a living by painting, Bill decided to try music as a livelihood. He worked as a road musician playing his fiddle with such country western greats as Oakie Paul Westmoreland, Smiley Burnett, Lefty Frizzell, Ray Price, and Johnny Cash, but he soon grew tired of that lifestyle. When talking about that time in his life Bill would always point to his full head of white hair and tell you, “After so long you get like this!” Bill Haught even picked cotton for a while, but soon his need to find a better way of life prompted him to go back to his painting. His pregnant wife, Dorothy, told him he was probably out of his mind, but Bill persevered. He was soon selling small paintings to his fellow workers and continued to sell his paintings from that time on. He had found his “better way”— picking cotton was now out of the picture for good. I knew Bill for only a brief twelve years. We worked together, wrote together, played music together, and most importantly, we laughed a lot together. I shared his love for life, and, at times, his frustrations when people would not understand the joy he tried to impart to them. I learned a great deal from this man called White Bird. He loved his music, which he inherited from his granddad, Babe, through his father, Richard. From what I observed, nothing brought him more joy than when he had a fiddle in his hands. It was a contagious sort of joy that carried over to everyone who heard him perform. I remember an occasion when we happened to meet, in passing, by a store in Apache Junction. For some reason or another, I had my guitar with me and he had his fiddle. We were headed in opposite directions at the time, but that didn’t really seem to matter. Bill asked me if I’d like to play a tune or two, and as I could find no reason why we shouldn’t, I consented. He said, “let’s go in here where it’s a little more comfortable; these folks won’t mind.” Bill, sure enough, had a way about him... when he said folks wouldn’t mind, and well, they just didn’t. We took over an area in the middle of the store for about twenty minutes. You’d have thought we owned the place. We had a ball—so did everybody else for that matter. Time ran short on our impromptu concert as we both had to continue on “down the road” to wherever it was we had been headed in the first place. I asked Bill what had prompted the incident. He said he didn’t really know, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time and “by golly, it sure was fun,” as he would say. That was the last time I ever saw my friend. By Hank Sheffer, “The Old Storyteller” No one needs a chapel, Or a fancy place to be. All he needs is faith in God, And a beautiful old oak tree. —White Bird