“Supposin’ ya had a time machine,” blurted Little Joe the Wrangler, out of absolutely nowhere, “an’ you could go back in history an’ have a beer with anyone you want. Who would ya have a beer with?”
The mention of beer, of course, got the attention of the cowboys circled around the campfire, but subjunctive ontological conjecture like this only wrinkled their weathered brows. Boot heels scuffed the dust before anyone answered.
Latigo Lou from Lingle finally asked, “Who’s buyin’ this here imaginary beer?”
Cookie hawked a loogie into the fire and said, “Play along, fellers. This is cosmic beer. It's just there when you show up.”
There followed more uncomfortable silence.
“If I don’t invite some dead guy, do I get to drink both beers?” Panhandle’s query was met by a severe scowl from Cookie, and he withdrew the question.
“I’ll go first.” said Powder River Pete. “I’d go back an’ see my grandpa an’ ask him to show me how to tie a Turks Head knot again. He showed me once when I was little, but I forgot. I lose sleep tryin’ to figure it out in my head.”
Stetsons nodded sagely, and Sourdough offered, “Me? I’d go back an’ have a beer with Tom Horn... ask him whether or not he really shot that kid. It might take more’n one beer, though.”
Sweetwater Slim stretched his legs, scratched his belly and tossed in his two cents. “I’ve always wondered how Big Nose George felt ‘bout the Governor of Wyoming walkin’ ‘round in shoes made outa his hide. I’d like to pick his brain ‘bout that over a beer.”
“I’m startin’ to get a li’l buzz from all this make-believe beer.” said Rawhide Ricky from Rawlins, standing up unsteadily. “An’ liquor always makes me think about women. So I guess I’d go back to Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show an’ have a beer with Annie Oakley. Not to pitch woo at her or nothin’, but to talk ‘bout guns an’ shootin’ stuff outa the air.”
Who says crusty ol’ cowpunchers have no imagination? Our crew ginned up their fantasy juices and pitched right in.
Even the Trail Boss got into character. “Hell, I’d go back east an’ have a brew with one o’ the Founders. Jefferson or Adams or one o’ them. I’d tell ‘em what’s goin’ on now, an’ see what they thought. They’ll sure need a beer after I tell ‘em what’s happenin’ these days.”
A couple of the cowhands appeared puzzled at those names. “Who?” they mumbled, and scratched their chins.
“Hell,” Glendo Gus jumped up and gesticulated, “I’d do my civic duty an’ go back in time to tell Fetterman not to ride over that damn hill. I’d tell ‘im that, if he gets killed, neither one of us will get any beer.”
At this, gruff voices argued back and forth, warning Gus not to go back to yesteryear and change the course of history. They told him it sounded like he was only in it for the beer.
Cookie stirred a giant black cauldron of simmering beans, dodging smoke as he cooked. The gathered broncpeelers all looked up to him as the oldest and wisest around the ol’ campfire.
“Who would you go back and drink with, Cookie?” Sourdough posed the question that was on every lip.
Wiping his hands on his apron, Cookie replied, “Lemme think on that.”
He gazed at sparks spiraling into the night sky, and answered. “Malcolm X, that’s who. I always liked that sumbitch an’ I’ve wanted to have a beer with a Muslim fer a spell now. He was smarter’n a busload o’ county agents. He was a charismatic leader an’ braver’n a badger. An’ he was born in Nebraska, so sorta a neighbor. Yep, Malcolm By Gawd.”
“Come an’ get it. Supper’s ready.”
Rod Miller can be reached at: RodsMillerWyo@yahoo.com
