A Cowpoke for Governor?

By Richard Woodbury

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.

"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.

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.

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."

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. "Look him in the eyes, and you have to trust him," says Tyler motel clerk Boris Johnson. "There's nothing phony. He speaks common sense."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.