The Longhorn-Harley Davidson Cross

The sun was just beginning to peak over the ridge, breakfast was in full swing, and Dick and Billy were having the same conversation they’d had ever’ morning for about six months.

“How ‘bout a hotcake?” Dick asked his old partner as he flips a couple on his own plate.

“Nope,” was Billy’s slurred reply as he popped the top on another beer. “I’m shtickin’ with the Breakfast of Champions.”

The two old bachelor cronies had been sort of on the outs the last few months. Dick had quit drinkin’ last fall sometime and wanted his ol’ buddy to experience all of the joys of sobriety that he’d gotten so accustomed to. There were times when the conversations got a little tense.

“I’m tellin’ ya Billy, that drinkin’ is gonna kill you. Have a hotcake. You need somethin’ decent in yer stomach. That big red nose of yours looks just like a doorknob on the Fire Hall.”

“Nuthin’ worse than a reformed drunk,” Billy retorted, his bleary eyes filled with inebriated contempt. “Eat them things yerself. Door knob on a Fire Hall, my foot! I feel sorry fer you, Dick. You got nuthin’ to look forward to. When you wake up in the mornin’ that’s as good as you’re gonna feel all day long. Me… now I know I’m gonna feel better than this after while.”

The conversations always just seemed to trail off into the sunset with neither side of the argument getting the upper hand. They were both a little on the stubborn side and neither one of ‘em would give an inch. Besides, they’d been partners far too long to get real mad at each other.

“We better get goin’ if we’re gonna make that circle before the sun gets too high,” Billy changed the subject. He flipped the now empty beer can into the old thirty gallon oil drum by the door as he went out.

“Yea…. we better,” Dick answered as he tidied up the table. “Give ol’ Roany a feed of oats for me, will you? I’ll be right behind you.”

The boys struck out in a long trot for the west end of their summer pasture to look things over. They’d had a shower or two, the grass was good, and it was a perfect mornin’ for a ride. Just as they topped the ridge on the south end of the field, they spied one of the neighbor’s cows in with theirs. She was a big dry red brindle cow with a set of horns that belonged in the movies.

“Looks like we’ve got one of Smokey’s cows in here again.”

Normally they would have just eased her over to a gate and put her back where she belonged, but those horns were just more of a temptation than a trigger happy cowboy could stand. The critter looked like she must have been a Longhorn/Limousine cross, for she weighed in at around fourteen hundred pounds.

“Just look at those antlers,” Dick grinned as he jerked down his rope. “I’ve got the head.” Down the coulee towards their unsuspecting victim the two tumbleweed cowboys galloped.

The ol’ girl threw her head up and put her tail over her back the minute she saw them comin’, and took off on a high lope for the hole in the fence she’d crawled through. She didn’t quite make it, and let out a beller that would raise the dead when the slack came out of the loop that Dick had neatly placed around her horns.

Billy’s end wasn’t quite as easy. The sagebrush was tall and thick so the heelin’ part of the operation was a little on the tricky side. A couple of loops later and he had her. The boys stretched the old cow out on the sagebrush flat on the far side of the ridge.

They were proud as punch of their little piece of cowboy fun, but to say that the bellerin’ cow wasn’t impressed would be an understatement.

“That ought to teach her to stay home,” Dick grinned as he stepped off his horse and walked over to the cow stretched out on the ground to retrieve his rope from those huge horns. As he straddled her neck and pulled his loop loose, Billy rode up to loosen his rope on her hind feet.

This is an operation that the boys had performed at least a jillion times. It’s just standard procedure for turnin’ a critter loose. But this time Billy was a little quick on the draw and released the slack on his end just as Dick was astraddle the cow’s neck. Up she came, with one of Dick’s legs on each side and a hand on each of those giant horns.

They just thought the ol’ cow was upset before. She took off like a rocket; bellerin’ and hookin’ at Dick with her antlers. They were almost perfect handlebars, and he really put up a dandy ride. It’s a dang shame it wasn’t captured on video.

Boy, what a sight. Dick’s long legs were draggin’ the ground on each side of her neck with the rowels on his big Mexican spurs whirrin’ through the prairie grass, and cutting little trenches. Both hands were firmly gripped on those wonderful Longhorn-Harley Davidson handlebars.

About this time Billy’s Border Collie couldn’t stand not being in on the action, and ran around to the front and grabbed the already irate cow by the nose. She dropped her head to hook the dog and off went Dick, landing in a heap right in front of his former mode of transportation.

“Ah, there he is!” Ol Brindle thought to herself and made a hook at the seat of Dick’s Wranglers. The horn slid right over the intended target and lodged itself firmly under his belt. This deal isn’t getting any better from Dick’s perspective. He’s flat on his belly now with a mad cow’s horn stuck in the back of his belt. She’s as intent on getting loose from Dick as he is from her, but at the present time her focus is on the dog that’s still taking every opportunity to nibble away at her face.

The powerful old cow is galloping across the prairie after the dog with a horn under Dick’s belt and his face making a little furrow through the rocks and sagebrush. Billy’s thinkin’ this is about the funniest thing he’s ever seen, and would give his whole calf check for a camera.

The belt buckle finally broke, the cow ran off, and Dick managed to drag himself back to his feet. He was a real mess. His clothes were nearly torn off, and the ride through the sagebrush hadn’t done his face any good.

“You really don’t look THAT bad,” Billy grinned, barely able to contain his laughter. “…. ‘cept fer yer nose. Looks like a door knob on the Fire Hall.”

Keep Smilin’…. and don’t forget to check yer cinch.

Ken Overcast is a recording cowboy singer that ranches on Lodge Creek in North Central Montana where he raises and dispenses B.S. http://www.kenovercast.com.