Cookie stirred the beans while he tended the coffee, keeping a sharp ear toward chatter around the ol’ campfire.
He overheard the Kaycee Kid wonder, “That li’l feller who was here the other night, our Secretary of State, is he really runnin’ for governor?”
Joe the Wrangler nodded his Stetson in the affirmative and said, “Yep, but it’ll be a tough go for him. He’s single. Ain’t got no wife.”
“Why in hell does that matter?” queried the Kid.
“Think about it,” Joe retorted, “If a candidate for governor is flyin’ solo, voters’ll think he’s just a half a bubble off. Why vote for someone who cain’t get a gal? He’d probably screw up every other job, too.”
Cookie grumbled, “Don’t say ‘gal’, that’s sexist. Use “partner” instead.”
“Hey,” offered the Kid, “if a partner is all it takes, my cousin raises sheep out on the desert. We could go snag one for him an’…”
“Stop right there,” admonished Cookie. “I ain’t gonna live in a state that has a governor and a First Sheep!”
The circle of trail-wise cowboys scratched their noggins for a few minutes, then came to a consensus. “Okay, it's gotta be a woman. Lets help him find one.”
“Hey, I know!”, said Sourdough, “We can all pitch in an’ get him one o’ those mail-order brides, like in the old days. I’ll even buy the stamp.”
Joe the Wrangler piped up, “Them gals...er, I mean partners is all on the internet now, an’ they’re from strange foreign places like Ukraine and the Philippines. That wouldn’t look too good in Cheyenne. Bad optics.”
“Plus, I think he wants to close our borders. That’s like shootin’ himself in the foot partner-wise.”, said a voice from somewhere in the campfire smoke.
“How ‘bout we just find him a plain ol’ ranch partner from some outfit here in Wyoming?” Sourdough continued, trying to be helpful. “We could dress her in velvet an’ hang a bunch o’ turquoise on her. That seems to work here in these parts.”
“I know,” Rawhide Ricky from Rawlins tossed in his two bits, “I betcha we can recruit one o’ those workin’ partners from the Ruby Rooms down on Front Street. They always seem to be up for adventure.”
“I don’t wanna rain on yer parade,” Cookie admonished Rawhide, “but the sheriff closed that place down years ago. Besides, nobody in the Big Empty wants to see a soiled dove in the governor’s mansion.”
Rawhide Ricky would not be dissuaded, and said, “I usually get lucky at the Buckhorn in Laramie. We could take him there after a U.W. game, an’ feed him crème de menthe frappe’s until some co-ed hits on him.”
Cowboys shook their heads in disbelief, as if to say “Dream on.”
“Why is this so tough?”, asked Sourdough, “The li’l dude’s rich, ain’t he?”
“Naw,” corrected Cookie, “his Daddy has all the dough an’ just gives the li’l squirt an allowance.”
“Whatever partner we find for him has to be short,” said Joe, “so when they take selfies it don’t look weird. Optics an’ all.”
“We can get him a pair o’ those Mexican roach-stomper boots with three-inch heels. An’ put a ten-gallon hat on him. Problem solved," Rawhide offered his best sartorial advice.
“Hells bells,” said the Kaycee Kid, “lets just get him a dog an’ call it good.”
“Nope,” answered Cookie, “then we’re right back where we were with that damned sheep.”
Cookie stirred the pot one last time and said, “What a pickle. Who wants coffee?”
Rod Miller can be reached at: rodsmillerwyo@yahoo.com
