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<text id=90TT0673>
<title>
Mar. 19, 1990: A Cowpoke for Governor?
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1990
Mar. 19, 1990 The Right To Die
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
NATION, Page 19
A Cowpoke for Governor?
</hdr>
<body>
<p>Clayton Williams' folksy campaign catches on with Texas voters
</p>
<p>By Richard Woodbury
</p>
<p> With his gray Resistol hat and black ostrich-skin boots, the
folksy gubernatorial candidate working the food line in a Tyler
cafeteria last week looked every bit the old-time Texas cowboy
that he is. And the campaign pledges that he rattled off in a
gravelly West Texas drawl were just what plenty of voters in
the Lone Star State want to hear.
</p>
<p> "Double the prisons...boot camps for first-felony
offenders...fight drugs from every direction," urged
Republican Clayton Williams. "Free college tuition for good
kids from at-risk families...better vocational training...more private-sector jobs," he went on. And all this with
no new taxes.
</p>
<p> Williams' cowpoke image and a bundle of cash have propelled
him to the fore in a mud-spattered primary season. Riding a
nearly 2-to-1 lead over his nearest rival, Texas Railroad
Commissioner Kent Hance, into this week's G.O.P. election, he
seemed a good bet to win outright, avoiding a runoff. One
recent poll shows him going on to beat handily any candidate
the Democrats nominate.
</p>
<p> Williams has caught on because he offers catchy solutions
to complicated problems, with a rustic sincerity that Texans
seem to relish. A fourth-generation Texan, he personally leads
roundups and spring brandings of the 900 Brangus cattle on his
43-sq.-mi. Happy Cove Ranch in the Big Bend country. He
concedes that he once decked a disgruntled ex-employee,
explaining, "There are times when you don't call a lawyer."
Observes Austin political consultant George Christian: "He
typifies what a lot of people think Texas ought to be."
</p>
<p> Williams, 58, is a shrewd businessman who grew up on a
cattle ranch at Fort Stockton and built a $250 million empire
in oil, gas, ranching, banking and communications. He boasts
that his business endeavors have created jobs for 100,000
Texans. "I'm a survivor of the oil patch," he tells crowds.
"Rebuilding is my purpose. Let's make Texas great again." On
the stump at tamale feeds and rodeos, the candidate embellishes
his message, bear-hugging his way through crowds, pecking women
on the cheek and grabbing a guitar to warble a Mexican ballad.
</p>
<p>motel clerk Boris Johnson. "There's nothing phony. He speaks
common sense."
</p>
<p> Williams has saturated the airwaves with 30-second TV spots,
some featuring Williams on horseback, backlighted by the
setting sun. The ads are lavishly shot on film rather than
videotape, for higher quality. In one tough-talking commercial,
he promises to "introduce [drug pushers] to the joys of bustin'
rocks." Of the $8.4 million Williams has invested in the race,
$6.2 million has come from his own very deep pocket.
</p>
<p> Popular though it may be with average voters, Williams'
campaign has irritated members of the state's Old Guard
Republican establishment, who preferred a more conventional
nominee. Dismissing his chances, they spread support among
Hance, former Secretary of State Jack Rains and Dallas lawyer
Tom Luce. But as Williams gained steam, they reluctantly began
to jump aboard with campaign contributions.
</p>
<p> Williams says he wants to be Governor because his son
Clayton Wade had a marijuana problem when he was 15. After the
boy was expelled from high school in 1986, Williams and his
wife Modesta saw him through a 14-month rehabilitation program.
"Help me rid us of this plague," he implores audiences. "Help
me get the drug dealers out of the school yards." He wants to
create a work camp in the West Texas desert where youthful drug
offenders would get a chance to reform without obtaining a
police record. He suggests doubling the number of state
narcotics agents, establishing special drug courts and
stiffening sentences for casual drug users.
</p>
<p> To pay for the programs, Williams would enact a state hiring
freeze and sweeping budget cuts, including selling most of the
61 official airplanes and closing district offices. "You give
this fella a whack at that budget, and I'll pay for it all and
save some to boot," he says.
</p>
<p> Critics have attacked Williams for attempting to buy the
governorship with simplistic solutions. "I don't think we can
ride horseback into the space age," said G.O.P. rival Luce. But
Williams dismisses such criticism with his trademark horse
laugh and zany grin. The larger question is whether his cowboy
cachet can survive in the general election. "He hasn't
withstood the fire of a long campaign and journalistic
scrutiny," points out Richard Murray, a University of Houston
political scientist. "Without the cash, he'd be a terrible
fourth." Whatever way the vote goes, Williams appears ready to
accept it. "If I lose," says Williams, "I've drilled a total
dry hole. If I win, I'll get some of my money back" in
contributions from political fund raisers.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>