Yarn of the Cowboy

Time after time, he faced death with a grim face but never allowed a single tear to slide down his cheek. The earth was dug, the body was buried, and the prayer was said. Each one seemed worse than the one before, but he couldn’t possibly remember them all. There were just too many of them. Paralyzed faces, blank eyes, stiff limbs, and burnt clothing all merged together into one heavy shadow that wrapped around and around his heart like a spider’s web around a twitching fly.

Why wasn’t he one of them? He had come close enough to death hundreds of times, even taking the rifle from his saddle after the burial of a young family and tasting the metallic mouth of the filthy weapon under his tongue.

As the rosy clouds faded to a dreary gray, he decided that it was time to catch a few hours of sleep. He dreaded the nightmares that would haunt his brain, but nonetheless he submitted to his weary body and began preparing for the night. The mule’s reins he tied around his ankle and Molly’s he wrapped around his hand, and in this fashion he was holding onto the only two things that would keep him alive. There used to be many more horses and several more mules—and many more Rangers, for that matter—but one by one the animals had been picked off: killed, stolen, or even eaten.

When Glenn had been there, they had been desperate enough to kill one of the mules and cook her on the spot. There was still a bite of her meat left in Molly’s saddlebag, but he figured he would finish it in the morning, when the forever hopeful rising sun invited him to yet another day of life and death. But during the past few weeks he had decided that every day seemed to deal out more corpses to bury than things to rejoice over. An ace of spades was nonexistent.

He closed his eyes and gradually found himself reminiscing on his youthful days, the ones that seemed to disclose an ace of spades at every turn. He saw his girl at church in a yellow calico dress, smiling at him from the other end of the pew, and his older brother’s shining eyes when he presented a buffalo robe to their father. He remembered the glorious cattle herd most of all, composed of thousands of cows and a dozen cowboys, each man entrusted with, surely, the greatest task of the West. He had herded the endless cattle that swarmed through dusty canyons and spread through barren plains, surging through rainstorms and scattering when thunder struck. Each day had been an adventure, a lucky set of cards.

When he was snoring, the cattle still flooded through his mind. For once, his dreams were enjoyable. But when he returned to reality once more, he was reminded that things were far from enjoyable.

Molly the horse was gone, and so was the mule.

~*~

The sun tipped over the distant mountains, spreading its golden light across the solemn plains. Not a soul but the single Ranger was there to see it.

He found the tracks of his animals, but did so only out of habit, and didn’t follow them. The Indian’s footprints were there, too, visible only as discreet impressions in the thin grass. Molly’s reins were still wrapped tightly around his hand, but the Indian had expertly sawed the leather near her bridle. The knot around his boot hadn’t been good enough, either.

Why?

He numbly sat back down again. All he had left was a blanket, a few sips of water left in a canteen, a rifle, and the clothes on his back. He’d rather that the Indian had thrown an axe in his stomach and ended it there. There was nothing more to live for. There wasn't a chance he could live.

He took the rifle and laid it across his lap. His shaking fingers skimmed the long barrel and his other hand ran through his thinning hair. After all these years of struggle, he told himself, it would all be over. Just a simple twitch of the finger and his life would dissolve away into nothingness.

He knew that he was scared. He was scared of death and of what lay beyond. What glowed above and what simmered below. For the first time since his early childhood, he began to cry. He was furious with himself at first, shoving the rifle away and trying to stifle his sobs, but the salty tears would not stop spilling from his eyes.

Soon he gave up. He hugged his knees to his chest and bowed his head. He whispered hurried prayers to God and to Mary and to Joseph and to Abraham and to every other biblical name he could think of, even stumbling upon Judas and spitting out his name too. He blubbered through the Our Father as if he was at his own burial and crossed himself several times. When it was all through he felt a bit better and told himself that his mother must approve of all this religious flapdoodle up on her cloud in Heaven, and the Creator must like it also.

It would be alright, he said to himself. Heaven was before him, just a simple twitch of the finger away. His life would dissolve, but it would melt into golden honey and fluffy cotton. He smiled and rubbed his eyes on his sleeve.

His last view of life on earth, he decided, should be beautiful. So he gathered his blanket and rifle and canteen and walked towards the rising copper sun. The folds in the mountains were shadowed by the light, as were small valleys in the plain. A few tiny birds swept by in a string of seven, twittering happily in greeting.

He chose a spot on the plain and sat down on his blanket again, watching the little birds shrink to frolicking dots as they neared the mountains. For the first time in a very long while, the man was happy, and life was beautiful.

He closed his eyes and the sun soaked his skin. A sweet breeze kissed his cheek.

It was then when a sixth sense, or maybe a combination of all his senses, told him that something was near. He opened his eyes. Something was wandering in the foothills.

“Good Lord,” he whispered. “A cow.”

There she was, calmly grazing near the mountains. She was very far off, but with his experience he knew that she was undoubtedly a cow. Not a buffalo or an antelope or a deer, but one of a cattle herd.

He gathered his things again and nearly tripped over his blanket as he scrambled to his feet. He slowed himself down a little so as not to frighten the creature, but the cow was so calm that he could have somersaulted to her and she would have remained calm. He dropped his tiny bundle and approached her. “Sweet, sweet, beautiful thing,” he crooned as he stroked her shoulder. Her eyes were orbs of chocolate and her hide a reddish brown. She watched him under long eyelashes as he petted her, flicking her tail. “Where did you come from, girl? Where’s the rest of the herd?”

As if in reply, she turned her head towards the mountains and pricked her ears. “That way, girl?” She looked back at him with the sad, sweet face that cattle always seem to wear. Then she plodded on towards the mountains, the sun shining in her eyes. The man picked up the rifle and blanket and canteen and followed after her.

He was dusty and sweaty but ever so grateful. He was grateful that the Indian hadn’t thrown an axe in his stomach, and grateful that he could live to see this day and follow this cow. As he had predicted, she had only wandered a little ways from the herd.

The cow lead him through a pass in the mountains, and before long, he felt the pounding of a million hooves across the Great Plains.