“Where the hell is my big cookin’ pot?” Cookie brandished a butcherknife at the hands gathered around the ol’ campfire.
Latigo Lou from Lingle answered, “That li’l Secretary of State feller, the one that wants to be governor, he took it down to the creek for target practice.”
White showed around Cookie’s pupils and his lip curled in a snarl. “Why, that pint-sized sumbitch, I’ll skin him iff’n….”
“Relax, pard,” the Trail Boss licked a roll-yer-own, “Yer cookpot’s safe. I seen him shoot. Hell, it's all he can do to lift that big Peacemaker he packs.”
“He had that horse pistol holstered when he walked down there. I seen it,” The Kaycee Kid strummed an old Marty Robbins tune as he spoke, “He’s so short, the business end was draggin’ in the dirt.”
“Yeah, Cookie,” Rimrock stifled a chuckle, “He set your pot down, then tried to Johnny Ringo quickdraw on it an’ do a gunfighter twirl like some sorta deadly pistoleer. Knocked hisself upside the noggin. Trail Boss is right. Yer utensil is plumb safe.”
“He ain’t no bigger’n a corn nubbin,’” Joe the Wrangler offered, “What’s he doin’ with all that pistol? He’ll more’n likely just hurt hisself instead o’ the crockery.”
Stetsons nodded around the campfire at this truism.
“He’s practicin’ for when the legislature lets him sit around his office packin’ heat.” This from the Trail Boss, who kept up on news from Cheyenne.
“He wants to be ready to fend off all them rustlers who want to monkey around with Wyoming’s corporate rules. Or shoot them renegades from Utah who want to vote in our elections.”
Snickers and muffled laughs came from cowboys who sat cross-legged around the fire and mingled with the hiss and crackle of the flames.
“I think he just wants to be legal when he packs a gun around the Capitol. He’s probably tired of hidin’ that big iron In The One Place He Knows He Can Hide It,” mused Sourdough with a pained look on his wrinkled features.
Cookie wiped his hands on his apron, put them on his hips and said, “Criminantly, I’m as much fer concealed carry as the next feller, but that there’s a line I just won’t cross.”
Gunfire and high-pitched curses from down by the creek punctuated the gathering dusk around the campfire. Sparks drifted up into the darkening sky and cowboys poked sticks at embers, deep in thought.
“Still, ya gotta give the li’l dude some credit for the notion," offered the Kaycee Kid, “Iff’n all our elected officials is armed to the teeth an’ can defend theyselves, that oughta free up their security folks an’ cops to go confiscate bootleg whiskey an’ them dirty books from the libraries or go to Texas to help catch ne’r-do-wells tryin’ to sneak across the border.”
Coyotes began to howl at one another in the distance as the weary trail hands contemplated the pros and cons of gun totin’ politicians.
Sourdough’s tummy gave a hungry grumble as he said, “Ya know, Iff’n he’s purty careful with that piece and observes the basic rules of gun safety, we oughta be alright, politician or not.”
Cookie sauntered up to the edge of the fire, spit a stream of Copenhagen juice into the coals and regarded the cloud of steam.
“All I’m sayin’,” he said, as if to put an end to the debate, “if that li’l bastid shoots one hole in my favorite pot, none o’ you brokedown broncpeelers is getting’ any supper.”
“Who wants coffee?”
Rod Miller can be reached at: rodsmillerwyo@yahoo.com
