Nighthawks fluttered in the dusk, and the coals of the ol’ campfire glowed in the waning redness of sunset. Jelly Roll crooned 21st Century country music from a smart phone, as teenagers from town talked about their day in the saddle.
Out trail-weary buckaroos were bunched at the back of the chuckwagon, out of the smoke, and regarded the circle of youngsters with bleary eyes.
“Gawdamighty, I hope the Big Boss never agrees to another high school field trip.” Panhandle was too tired to eat, and just held his plate of beans in trembling hands. “I’d druther night-herd badgers than spend another day with them kids. I’m plumb wore out.”
“I dunno,” said Rawhide from Rawlins, “that kid with the mohawk and baggy britches put in an honest day’s work. He even tried his hand at ropin’ an’ seemed to get the hang of it. He shore likes to hear hisself talk, though.”
A yellow bus from Big Empty High School had pulled up to cow camp in the pale pre-dawn, and dropped off a dozen or so juniors and seniors for their annual field trip to the sticks. Their broncpeeler chaperons paired off with a newbie apiece, and set out to do cowboy work.
“I took that big fella there, the one pickin’ splinters outa his hand, to fix fence. He wouldn’t wear gloves, said his coach would consider that unmanly. We never talked, cuz he had them earphones on all day. But he outworked me ‘til his hands started bleedin’,” Glendo Gus said, with begrudging admiration.
Sourdough wiped his spectacles in his sweaty neckerchief, and nodded toward a skinny kid wearing a Nirvana t-shirt. “That’n there has eagle eyes. We was trackin’ strays an’ he didn’t miss a hoofprint. That is, ‘til he started lookin’ fer arrowheads instead. He showed me how to find ‘em, an’ we gathered arrowheads all day. I’ll go locate them strays tomorrow.”
“Lookee here,” said Sourdough, reaching into his shirt pocket, “here’s a pretty red one. It’ll make a great bolo tie.”
Sudden laughter burst from the gaggle of youngsters around the campfire. One jumped to his feet, and pantomimed a bowlegged walk. Strange hand signals were flashed in the firelight.
Latigo Lou said, with some pride, “That gal with purple hair, says she’s a thespian. I put her on Ol’ Reliable, cuz he’s usually foolproof. But a sage chicken flew up in front o’ him, an’ he pitched a fit. She stayed with ‘im, sayin’ “nice horsey, nice horsey” and rode ‘im to a standstill. Iff’n she has any cow savvy, she might make a helluva hand.”
“I took that li’l blonde headed cheerleader with me to swamp out the barn.” This from Rimrock, who still smelled like manure. “She shoveled shit all day. She shore knows lotsa interestin’ cuss words, I’ll give ‘er that much.” He added, sotto voce, “She ain’t never heard o’ Paatsy Cline, though.”
A low rumble announced the school bus arriving to retrieve the field trippers. With high-fives, fist bumps and hugs for their hosts, the students boarded the bus for the long trip home.
Silence once again reigned around the embers of the ol’ campfire, after echoes of hip-hop country music and youthful laughter died out. Cowboys mumbled, “Kids these days.” and “I sorta miss ‘em already.”
Cookie sauntered unsteadily up to the group, baking pan in hand, and said, “Hey, fellers, them kids baked up a big passel o’ brownies fer dessert! Y’all dig in, they’re pretty damn good.”
Rod Miller can be reached at: RodsMillerWyo@yahoo.com
