There's not a lot that can get under a cowboy's hide, but there are a few things that most of them would just rather not do. One of them is wranglin' dudes … that's almost the bottom of the barrel.
Not long ago I ran into an old pardner of mine that I hadn't seen for over thirty years. I'd heard he'd been killed in a wreck when the brakes went out on a truck he was drivin'. The story I'd gotten was that he was haulin some cows off a lease in the mountains in Wyoming and had wound up down in the bottom of a canyon underneath a truck load of cows. Imagine my surprise when I ran into him down by the stockyards one day. It was even worse than I'd heard. He ain't dead at all ... he's a dude wrangler over in Jackson Hole.
That's one of the main reasons cowboys are dead against gun control. When you run onto a deal like that how can you put the poor guy out of his misery?? Naw, I didn't shoot him, but I dang shore felt sorry for him. He's totally lost all of his self respect.
Then there's another guy I need to tell you about. Dave Kilgore is a good ol' boy and has his head in the right place, at least most of the time, but he wound up fallin' into another one of those traps that cowboys try to keep their feet out of. He's gotten himself a job workin' for one of those rich absentee ranch owners from back East.
Oh, I guess you really can't blame either one of those guys with the way things are goin'. Real ranch jobs on workin' ranches are getting' harder to come by all the time, and when you do finally find a good place to work, the poor ol' rancher hasn't got any money, so you're almost as well off without any job at all.
Well ol' Dave went to work for the Diamond X. I hope I never get that poor. It belongs to a trust-funder from the east coast by the name of Abigail Vandersnoot. I guess it isn't her fault that she was born in a bed with silk sheets on it, but rich knuckleheads like her sure make it hard on the folks that are tryin' to make a livin' off this land.
Ms. Vandersnoot is in her early sixties someplace and a little portly of build. The only time she was ever in the Real West before was the jillion times she flew out to California, and then she saw it from forty thousand feet of altitude. But she's a cowgirl now, by George, although I've heard she has to special order her Wranglers with the forty eight inch waist.
The first thing she did was to hire Dave ... "because he's a real cowboy, and I want a real wild west ranch." Yea, right.
Dave was broke and down on his luck, and the rumor has it, had been drinkin' pretty heavy for a day or two before he accepted the job. When he finally regained his mental faculties, it was too late. He'd already given his word, so he had to go through with it. Besides, a regular paycheck probably has some appeal, even when a guy's sober.
The first thing the boss did was have Dave haul most of the cows to town, because "they're making those disgusting little piles all over the grass." I guess that's not all bad. Now they have grass to burn, and the few cows that are left sure don't bother the fence much.
One of the main things that Ms. Vandersnoot found attractive about hiring Dave was that he looked like she thought a cowboy should look. I think it was a pure accident that she actually found someone that knew what he was doing, and other than putting up with some of the old girl's Eastern stupidity, it was almost like being on a pension. He really had it pretty easy, and the "bunkhouse" was like livin' in the Ritz Hotel compared to some of the shacks he's had to camp in.
Dave had actually gotten to sort of like his new boss. She was always asking his advice about "proper cowboy protocol." Bless her blue-blooded heart, but she really wants to fit in and create a genuine western atmosphere for her eastern friends to come visit. As with a lot of folks with too much money, she doesn't care if the outfit actually functions ... it just has to LOOK right.
Well, things took a turn for the worse, and Dave got himself canned. Here's what happened:
"I had a heifer that was calvin' about bed time, and it looked like it might be an hour or two before she was ready to deliver, so I stayed up and read the paper, and went and checked her again. She still wasn't ready and needed more time, so I went back in and pulled off my clothes and climbed into bed. I dosed for a few minutes until that little automatic alarm clock in my brain went off, and after a look at the real clock, got up to check the heifer again.
It was a warm evenin' last April (in the forties someplace) so I just left on those old sweat pants I sleep in and pulled on my boots. I grabbed my hat and overall jacket by the door and headed down to the barn with the flashlight. I was pretty sure she'd have the calf by herself anyhow, and I could just go back to bed. That ain't the way things worked. It was almost two in the morning by now, and I could see the heifer was going to need a little help, so I got her caught and strung out the calf puller.
It wasn't a real hard pull, but I ran into a genuine snag. That little ratchet deal on the calf puller got all tangled up in one of those big ol' legs on my sweat pants. The calf was about half born, and I couldn't stop where I was and try to untangle the durn thing, so I didn't have much choice. The calf's tongue is hangin' out and I'm in a hurry, and I can't get the puller untangled, so I just kicked off my boots and pulled off my sweat pants and finished the job with those britches going around and around in the calf puller gears.
The calf was fine, and I stuck him in a pen with his Mom, and thought all was well ... except for those old purple sweat pants. They really got chewed up in that little ratchet deal, and were a real mess. "The heck with them," I thought to myself. "They look like they're plumb shot anyway. I'll just dig 'em out of there in the morning."
I have to admit there was more of a cool breeze than I thought there was. I pulled my boots back on and headed back to the bunkhouse in my BVD's. In all fairness I probably WAS a sight for sore eyes all right, but just when I got under the yard light, here comes Ms. Vandersnoot out of the big house.
She's all decked out in her Holstein hide vest with those big ol' Wranglers stuffed in her boots and has on her fringy shirt with the rhinestones on it. It seems she was up listening to some of her opera music when she saw the light go on in the barn, and was comin' down to watch the action.
'David Kilgore! That is not proper attire for a cowboy! I expect authenticity on my property! Gather your belongings ... your position is terminated immediately! To avoid any wrongful discharge litigation, you may rest assured that a complete severance package will be forthcoming from the accounting department!'
"I guess she must have meant I just got fired ... and after I saved the ol' Bat's calf, too."
Severance package?? Accounting department?? As soon as I lose what little pride I have left I'm headed over to the Diamond X. I hear they're lookin' for a new hand, and I've still got a couple of those rhinestone shirts around here someplace that I used to play music in ... if they'll just go around my belly.
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
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