Damn straight, Amos. Cap'n Westy is probably one of them cherry picker boys who ride (poorly!) around in pink pants on a li'l ol' postage stamp of leather, flicking at offensive odors (sorry, odours) with a scented lace hanky.

Not like the Idaho Legion, each member of which stands at least 6'2" in their stocking feet and rides like the wind on a proper saddle, one with a horn, skirts, and all. True-blue chivalrous knights of the mountains and plains, champions of Truth, defenders of Justice, stickers-up for the downtrodden, each totin' two big ol' .44 Colt's, each capable of shootin' the down off a thistle at 600 yards while choppin' off heads with a full-sized Dragoon saber. Even the women of the Legion are Real Men, able to drink any self-confessed British cad under the table and still finish off a couple of gallons more on her own whilst choking a man to death with her left hand and kissin' a mountain lion with her right, or maybe the other way around.

And the Idaho Legion stands, sits, kneels, and lays ready to ride to Bee-Dubya-Ell's defense as soon as enough of 'em sober up.

As they shouted in that last, great, charge that captured Redoubt 10 at Yorktown:

Well, they didn't shout anything, really. The Redoubt was taken in silence. I'm putting this in MOAB Secret Code so as not to dishearten the Idaho Legion, half of whom think they shouted "Remember the Maine!" and half of whom think it was "Remember the Alamo!"