It was a hot, sultry night in the Red Desert, without a breath of cooling breeze.
All that could be heard was the grumbling of the exhausted cowboys and rattlesnakes copulating in the sagebrush.
Our crew of stalwarts had been gathering that rough and vacant country south of Wamsutter for three weeks straight, sleeping on the ground in their grimy soogans and eating nothing but Cookie’s scorched frijoles and biscuits.
“I stink so bad,” growled Sourdough, “iff’n I fell off my horse dead, the damn coyotes would starve before they took a bite o’ my carcass.”
He spat a stream of Copenhagen juice into the dying embers of the campfire.
Goshen Gus held his nose and replied, “Pard, we’re all walkin’ talkin’ scratch n’ sniff advertisements fer industrial strength deodorant. Somethin’s gotta change, an pronto!”
“Cheer up, fellers,” chimed in Rawhide Ricky from Rawlins, “there’s an election comin’ up. That oughta change things.”
Sweetwater Slim shook his sweaty Stetson and replied, “Change ain’t always good. I read a book by this dead Italian feller, Mac Avelli, an’ he said change is risky.”
“Hold on there, Slim,” Deacon from Dayton said, “s’posin’ yer horse is bedrocked an’ you jes climb on a fresh one. You gotta admit, that’s a good change.”
Slim stiffened, rising to debate, and said, “Okay, smart guy. S’posin’ you go to sleep under a clear, starry sky on a warm night, an’ you wake up in a whiteout blizzard, covered with snow an’ freezin’ your cojones. Do you call that a good change?”
Deacon chuckled and retorted, “About as good a change as when you dumped yer wife an’ married Butcherknife Lil, that dance hall gal.”
“Hold yer horses, pards,” chimed in Panhandle, “this here’s serious stuff. Iff’n we don’t like what’s goin’ on in this country, we can change things. I’m purty shore that’s wrote down somewheres in our constitution.” Tuckered heads nodded around the ol’ campfire at Panhandle’s political wisdom.
He continued, “Take Trump, fer instance. We was goin’ to hell in a handcart, what with the commies an’ all, an’ we elected Trump an’ he changed things.”
“Iff’n ya call a reflectin’ pool that won’t reflect a good change,” this from Rawhide Ricky, “then I have a surfside cabana in Wamsutter I wanna sell ya.”
A fierce Socratic debate raged around the ol’ campfire. Caballeros who embraced change argued that it was a law of the universe. Without change, entropy would take over and we would spiral slowly into a cold, dead state.
Bronc peelers who hated change countered that the status quo is always kinder to humanity. They defended the “old ways” by pointing out that, in their lifetimes, change had offered civilation nothing but street riots, miniskirts and disco.
Just as the rhetorical pot was fixin’ to boil over, Trail Boss stepped into the circle of firelight. He addressed the crew with, “Fellers, we’re gonna make some changes around here.”
Half the cowboys looked hopeful, the other half looked skeptical.
Trail Boss continued, “I got word from headquarters. Y’all get to change underwear!”
Whoops of glee erupted around the ol’ campfire, Stetsons were tossed in the air and rancid cowboys patted each other on the back.
When the tumult died down, Trail Boss added, “Panhandle, you change with Slim. Gus, you change with Rawhide. Sourdough, you change with me.” And so on.
Rod Miller can be reached at: RodsMillerWyo@yahoo.com
