Cottonwood crackled in the campfire in cobblestones down by the river. Tuckered cowboys shifted their butts one way then the other, trying to find a comfortable place to sit.
“God made the world in six days, and on the seventh day She threw rocks at Wyoming.” This piece of scriptural wisdom came from Rawhide Ricky. “A man needs a cast-iron ass to sit on ‘em.”
Sourdough offered this non sequitur, “Hey, didja hear what the legislature’s gonna do? They’s gonna make a new Mount Rushmore outa some Wyoming rocks.”
Squinty eyes regarded this news with suspicion. “Bullshit,” some of them said.
“Don’t gimme them looks,” Sourdough replied, “South Dakota’s makin’ so much money off the original, they want to build a copy here. They’s gonna put famous faces since the eighteenth century on big rocks all over Wyoming.”
He spat Copenhagen juice in the coals, and continued, “It’ll be patriotic as hell, an’ tourists will eat it up.”
Panhandle warmed to the conversation. “Nobody knows what them eighteenth century folks looked like. Weren’t no cameras back then.”
“That’ll make it easy,” replied Sourdough, “they’ll just make up a face, like they’re doin’ with that statue of Crazy Horse.”
“The could carve one into Independence Rock,” offered Hoolihan. “That thing’s just sittin’ there by the road. And a passel o’ new tourist money would make Muddy Gap Great Again.”
“They could carve Big Nose George on it, there’s sure enough rock there. An’ he’s from the eighteen hunnerds. Tourists would pay big money to see that.” The Kaycee Kid got excited about the deal.
“There’s big rocks all over hell up in Tensleep Canyon,” Deacon from Dayton rose to his feet and preached. “Maybe carve Nixon’s face into one o’ them cliffs. It’ll give them chalk-fingered rock hippies somethin’ to climb around on.”
“Ya know,” said Gus from Goshen, “them South Dakotans got it all wrong. They put all them faces in one place, when they shoulda scattered ‘em out all over the state. Make the tourists travel from rock to rock to see faces of dead folks. Like a scavenger hunt. Spread the money around.”
Stetsons nodded agreement around the ol’ campfire.
Sourdough forged onward. “Vedauwoo has all them rocks right by the interstate. An’ it’s smack dab between the university and the Capitol. If someone carved Josh Allen’s face on one o’ them boulders, tourists would go nuts an’ Buford would be a boomtown again!”
Brains churned beneath cowboy hats as the weary trail crew warmed to the task. Ideas were tossed out about which faces to carve on which rocks, near whichever Wyoming town needed a quick infusion of cash.
Discussion centered around all the little crossroads towns in the Big Empty that were struggling to hold on. The consensus around the campfire was that all that needs to be done is to chisel some famous person’s face into a nearby rock, and all the problems would disappear.
The Trail Boss tried to dampen the irrational exuberance by saying, “Fellers, this ain’t gonna be free. It’ll cost millions o’ bucks to do all that rock carvin’. Y’all are maybe bitin’ off more’n you can chew.”
Cowboys counted on crooked fingers, and ran the numbers through their noggins.
“It’ll be pricey, fer sure.” answered Sourdough, “but we’ll make up the difference in sales o’ t-shirts, shot glasses an’ bobble-head dolls. We’re gonna make so much money we won’t hafta mine no more coal!”
Cookie overheard the economic calculations, and wandered up to the campfire. “If y’all are such rich sumbitches now, supper’s gonna cost ya ten bucks a head. Come an’ get it while it’s hot.”
