Frijoles were slowly digesting in the bellies of our saddle pals as they basked in the post-prandial warmth of the campfire’s coals. Talk turned to politics, as it so often does around undigested beans.
“Hey,” exclaimed Joe the Wrangler, “didja hear ‘bout that li’l secretary of state fella?”
“What now? I’ll bite,” answered Panhandle.
“I heard a rumor at the feed store that he’s gonna quit.”
“Quit what?” asked Panhandle, his curiosity piqued.
“Quit bein’ secretary,” replied Joe, “you know, resign. Hang up his spurs. Hasta la vista, baby.”
“That don’t make no sense a’tall,” Rawhide Ricky from Rawlins piped in. “His daddy spent a fortune buyin’ him that job, an’ he’s just gonna pack it in? There’s gotta be somethin’ else goin’ on.”
Worldly-wise Sourdough belched and said, “It’s the ol’ bait & switch, fellers. I seen it a hunnerd times. You pay for somethin’ you see, an’ it gets switched for somethin’ you cain’t see. It’s an ol’ horsetrader trick.”
“Who the hell’s gonna keep our elections safe from miscreant Californianos now?” wondered Snake River Slim. “That li’l feller is all that was keepin’ us from communist chaos.”
“Think about it a minute,“ the Trail Boss tipped back his hat and opined. “His sidekick in the office is that Rubino feller, right? An’ he’s kinfolks with both Harriet Hageman and the ramrod lady of the Freedom Caucus.”
Chins were scratched and Stetsons nodded in the dwindling light of the campfire.
The Trail Boss continued, “It could be that Li’l Chucky is gonna high-tail it an’ bail out to clear the way for his sidekick to be secretary. Then Li’l Chucky can run fulltime for governor.
“It don’t work like that,” said Cookie, wiping his fingers on his greasy apron. “What happens is the Republican Party sends three names to the governor, an’ he picks one to be secretary.”
“Yeah, riiiight,“ scoffed Rawhide Ricky. “Knowin’ that crew, they’ll send the governor Rubino’s name an’ the names o’ two horsethieves or dead outlaws. It’s called stackin’ the deck.”
Latigo Lou from Lingle spat Copenhagen juice into the coals and said, “I heard gossip that the li’l secretary fella’s runnin’ off cuz he’s a-scared to debate Rod Miller. I heard it from a reliable source at a fancy bar, too.”
“Naw,” argued Glendo Gus, “I heard from the school ma’rm that the li’l secretary’s secret Russian bride is homesick for Leningrad, an’ he’s takin’ her back to the motherland an’ goin’ to work for Putin.”
“That makes sense,” nodded Joe the Wrangler, “Lord knows ol’ Vladimir needs a firm hand runnin’ them Russian elections.”
Smoke circled the campfire and made some eyes wet with tears.
“I’ll sure miss the li’l cuss.” This from a voice obscured by the smoke.
“Hey, look on the bright side,” Glendo Gus said. “Our treasurer came outa his shell after three years in the closet, an’ finally showed his true colors. I guess he was waitin’ fer after the primary to make sure he had plenty of guns backin’ his play.”
The smoke and the undigested frijoles and political talk seemed to sour the circle of broncpeelers. Attempts were made to steer the conversation toward cows, horses or women, but nobody seemed to be in the mood for more idle talk.
“Oh hell!” Cookie jumped up from his political trance and growled at the crew, “I forgot I have a prune cobbler cookin’. Sorry fellers. It’s probably burnt to a crisp by now, but yer welcome to chew on it. It’s all yer gettin’ ‘til breakfast.”
Rod Miller can be reached at: RodsMillerWyo@yahoo.com
