Nighthawks swooped and whirled in the gathering dusk as the sun went down on our favorite patch of the Big Empty. Cowboys sat around the ol’ campfire spittin’, whittlin’, cussin’ and discussin’.
“I saw that li’l Secretary of State feller in town the other day,” said Panhandle, “he was walkin’ kinda funny like he had a bad buck-off.”
“Naw,” Cookie answered, stirring the beans, “he just got his ass kicked by the County Clerks again or else they shoved something up his fundament, probably another order he gave ‘em. He’ll never learn.”
“Why does he keep pickin’ fights with folks who always thrash him six ways from Sunday?” this from Rawhide.
“Well, his daddy bought him that job,” Cookie replied, “an’ I guess he thinks he needs to do somethin’ to justify daddy’s investment. But it shore looks like he ain’t havin’ a lick o’ fun in that office.”
Joe the Wrangler looked puzzled. “Why in hell does he put up with all those ass-kickin’s? I heard tell he’s rich his ownself and don’t need the money. I heard he’s some sorta mule baron an’ sold 2000 o’ them knotheaded bastids a couple years ago.”
Cookie stopped tending beans and corrected Joe. “Naw. That’s just a rumor. Them wasn’t real mules. 2000 Mules was this Hollywood movie he was tryin’ to sell to folks, but nobody bought it.”
Noggins were scratched around the campfire. “Who’d wanna watch a movie about mules?” queried Joe.
“It weren’t about real mules”, Cookie declared, “It was about aliens with Jewish space lasers tryin’ to steal our elections or some such. Or maybe they had guns, I dunno. I fell asleep in the middle of it. There weren’t much action.”
Several of the crew growled, “Steal our elections?” and reached for their own six-shooters or copies of the Wyoming Constitution.
“That’s what that li’l feller was tryin’ to get folks to believe”, Cookie explained, “an’ his daddy’s money convinced enough of ‘em to get the li’l squirt elected.”
Sourdough jumped to his feet and said, “It’ll be a cold day in hell ‘fore we let a space alien take office here in Wyomin’! Our county clerks will see to that. They been keepin’ our elections safe since back in grandpa’s day.”
“See, that there’s the problem.” Cookie explained to the crew. “That li’l Secretary of State tinhorn ain’t never run an election in his life, but thinks he can do a better job than our county clerks. Hells bells, them folks been runnin’ elections since he was a gleam in his rich daddy’s eye.”
Cookie resumed stirring the pot. “An’ the short dude keeps sendin’ ‘em orders to do this or that cuz o’ somethin’ he saw in that movie, an’ the clerks keep shovin’ his orders up his ol’ wazoo. That’s why he walks kinda funny.”
Stetsons shook in disbelief around the ol’ campfire. Muffled grumbles were directed at the diminutive politician, “what a gomer”, “get a life” and “don’t pick fights with girls who can whup you”.
“Still, ya gotta sorta feel sorry for the li’l guy,” mused Cookie, “it ain’t no fun getting’ yer ass kicked that often.”
“Maybe,” said Joe the Wrangler sympathetically, “he’s in the wrong line o’ work. Maybe his daddy bought him the wrong job.”
Heads nodded in agreement in the firelight.
Joe added, “Maybe he should look into that mule baron job a li’l further, I bet he’d be crackerjack at it. There’s always a market for a critter that’ll do real work.”
Rod Miller can be reached at: RodsMillerWyo@yahoo.com
