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Season 10, Week 14
Apr. 9th, 2017 10:54 amTopic: "Campfire Stories"
The Cowboy squatted down for a rest, wiped his face with his bandana, and took off his hat. A man’s hat said a lot about him – his said “gunslinger.” It had been a long day out on the range and it was time for some grub.
The sun was going down over Flat Top Hill. “That’s my sign to head on back,” he thought as he swallowed the last of his water from the canteen, threw one leg over his horse, Bullet, and rode off into the sunset, alone. After a while, he started to sing. “I’ve got spurs that jingle jangle jingle, as I go riding merrily along.”
He’d been out on the Carlton Ranch, trying to find a stray. There was a hefty reward for the return of the Millers’ prize bull, and according to the reward poster, it was last seen near the creek. Whether the bull had wandered off or been stolen by some good-for-nothin’ rustlers was anybody’s guess. “I heard Dirty Jack was around, and this sounds like him,” the Cowboy thought.
He’d had plenty of run-ins with Dirty Jack and he knew that someday they’d have to sort it out on Main Street. Jack was fast, but the Cowboy was faster. He wasn’t worried.
The Cowboy rode up to the Hideaway Saloon and climbed off Bullet just as the sun went down. “No need to tie him up,” he thought, “he won’t wander off.” He pulled out his six-shooter before going in, just in case Dirty Jack was there.
He pushed through the saloon doors, ready for a fight or a drink. The Cowboy might’ve had a dry throat, but he wasn’t stupid.
The owner let him bunk there for a few chores. He didn’t want a spread of his own, because cowboys never stuck around long. The owner’s wife was nice enough, she could cook some, and canned beans over a campfire sounded better than it was. Besides, the sheriff had told him he couldn’t make any more campfires after that one little accident.
The Cowboy knocked the dirt off his chaps and moseyed up to the bar. “Gimme a sarsaparilla,” he told the barkeep.
‘
“Stan,” his father said, “You aren’t allowed in here. I don’t have sarsaparilla, so go in the back, get some milk, and wait for dinner. Make sure you sweep up the dirt you tracked in and put your bike away. You don’t want someone to steal it.”
The barkeep handed the Cowboy a broom, and a few of the customers snickered. He shot them a hard look and they quieted down soon enough. “I’ll stable Bullet in the barn," he thought, "but only Dirty Jack would be crazy enough to steal him!”
After the chores, the Cowboy went in back to the kitchen. The cook had a soft spot for him, so she had made his favorite, a big pot of chili. “Wash your hands and take your hat off,” she said. After washing up, he went to the icebox and poured himself a big glass of sarsaparilla from the carton, then went to the table and sat down. He thought he ought to say howdy.
“Howdy yourself,” said the cook. “Any luck finding the Millers’ dog? I heard that Jack Stephenson was looking for him, too. That’s a pretty big reward, but Fury’s a purebred bulldog.”
“Dirty Jack looking for the bull?” thought the Cowboy. “Hah! He probably stole it and now he’ll show up and say he found it, that low-down varmint.”
“Good chili,” he said. The cook liked compliments.
“Cowboys don’t talk much, do they?” she replied.
He just nodded. The cook understood, she always did. She wasn’t like that bartender -- she’d never tell him to sweep the saloon. The bunkhouse was different. The Cowboy had to clean it to earn his keep, and the cook was always after him to pick it up. But his real home was the prairie, and you never have to sweep that. The Cowboy was just biding his time here 'til he felt like movin’ on.
“I wouldn’t mind a slice of apple pie,” said the Cowboy. “I’ll be turnin’ in early tonight ‘cause I got to head out at first light. That bull ain’t gonna find itself.”
“Are you going back to Carlton Park?” asked the cook.
“I ain’t settled on that yet,” replied the Cowboy. He wanted to check out Dirty Jack’s place first.
The Cowboy was up at dawn, plus a few hours. Bullet was waiting for him, eager to hit the trail that afternoon.
Dirty Jack bunked over at the Stephenson’s place. Jack was big, with a quick draw and a quicker temper. Nobody crossed him, but the Cowboy wasn’t nobody. He wasn’t spoilin’ for a fight, but he wasn’t going to run from one either.
He jumped off Bullet, grabbed his rope and checked his gun, a Smith & Wesson Squirtmaster 250. “Better safe than sorry when Dirty Jack’s around,” he thought.
The Cowboy watched the main house, but nothing stirred. “No one’s home,” he thought, “guess I’ll check the corral out back.” He opened the gate and looked around. From the barn to his right came the sounds of a bull, and a mean one at that. The Millers’ bull was well known in the Territory as downright vicious, liable to chase a man ‘till sunset and back.
He got his lariat and pistol ready. “One way or another, that animal’s coming with me. Dirty Jack’s not gonna get my reward,” thought the Cowboy. He opened the barn door, and stood face to face with 50 pounds of pure bull meanness.
The bull charged, but the Cowboy stood his ground twirling his lasso until the bull got close enough for roping. “Missed!” he thought. The bull was headed right for him. The pistol didn’t stop the bull and it just made him madder.
“Better skedaddle!” thought the Cowboy, as he ran out of the barn and quickly climbed a nearby tree, the bull running in circles and trying to jump up after him. “No bull’s gonna get the best of me!” he thought. “But what does a cowboy do next?”
Just then, a wagon pulled up, and Old Man Stephenson got out along with Dirty Jack. Things were getting mighty complicated for the Cowboy.
“Jack, get that dog!” yelled Mr. Stephenson. “Aren’t you Burt’s son? What on earth are you doing in our tree? Should I call your dad?”
“I know him, Dad,” said Jack Stephenson. “He’s a year behind me in school. I heard he was looking for the dog, too.”
Mr. Stephenson went inside the house, shaking his head. Jack managed to catch Fury and take him back to the garage. Stan climbed down from the tree, shaken. “Cowboys don’t run . . . but I ran away!” he thought, sitting on the ground, his back against the tree, head hanging low. “Time to get my bike and go home.”
Before Stan could get up, Jack was back and stood in front of him, looking him over. “Not often I find a cowboy in a tree,” he said.
“I never climbed a tree so fast in my life,” replied Stan. “That dog is mean!”
“I know. I found him yesterday, over by the creek, but he was tired and hungry, so he was easy to catch. Mrs. Miller’s coming to pick him up.”
Jack looked at Stan’s chaps and hat. “Wait here,” he said, before disappearing into the house.
A few minutes later, Dirty Jack burst through the farmhouse door. “Reach for the sky!” he shouted.
Dirty Jack was wearing a black hat, with leather chaps and a vest. They were a little small, but the Cowboy didn’t notice because in the rustler’s hands were two PowerBlasters, streaming water at him from nearly twenty-five feet away! The Cowboy was in big trouble -- he had let Dirty Jack get the drop on him.
The gunfight raged all over the neighborhood. Finally, the Cowboy and Dirty Jack were both tired, soaked, and their guns were nearly empty. Each had enough for one last shot, and the two gunfighters knew what had to be done.
The street was empty. It was either the Cowboy or Dirty Jack – only one would walk away in the end. They stood ten paces apart, guns holstered, hands by their sides, each waiting for the other to draw. The Cowboy could see Dirty Jack’s trigger finger twitch. Suddenly, they both pulled and fired. Dirty Jack’s shot went wide, but the Cowboy’s hit Jack in the chest, and he collapsed in the street.
The Cowboy stood over Dirty Jack’s lifeless body and said “Want to come over to the Hideaway? The cook’s got some pie, and the sarsaparilla’s cold.”
“Sure,” said Dirty Jack. “Let me get my horse out of the barn.”
The Cowboy and Dirty Jack rode off into the sunset together, not saying anything, until they both started singing. “I’ve got spurs that jingle jangle jingle, as I go riding merrily along.”
* * * * *
I will be out of town and away from my computer Friday through Sunday, so I will not be able to respond to any comments until Monday. My apologies.
A big "howdy" to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
halfshellvenus for beta reading this.
HOME ON THE RANGE
The Cowboy squatted down for a rest, wiped his face with his bandana, and took off his hat. A man’s hat said a lot about him – his said “gunslinger.” It had been a long day out on the range and it was time for some grub.
The sun was going down over Flat Top Hill. “That’s my sign to head on back,” he thought as he swallowed the last of his water from the canteen, threw one leg over his horse, Bullet, and rode off into the sunset, alone. After a while, he started to sing. “I’ve got spurs that jingle jangle jingle, as I go riding merrily along.”
He’d been out on the Carlton Ranch, trying to find a stray. There was a hefty reward for the return of the Millers’ prize bull, and according to the reward poster, it was last seen near the creek. Whether the bull had wandered off or been stolen by some good-for-nothin’ rustlers was anybody’s guess. “I heard Dirty Jack was around, and this sounds like him,” the Cowboy thought.
He’d had plenty of run-ins with Dirty Jack and he knew that someday they’d have to sort it out on Main Street. Jack was fast, but the Cowboy was faster. He wasn’t worried.
The Cowboy rode up to the Hideaway Saloon and climbed off Bullet just as the sun went down. “No need to tie him up,” he thought, “he won’t wander off.” He pulled out his six-shooter before going in, just in case Dirty Jack was there.
He pushed through the saloon doors, ready for a fight or a drink. The Cowboy might’ve had a dry throat, but he wasn’t stupid.
The owner let him bunk there for a few chores. He didn’t want a spread of his own, because cowboys never stuck around long. The owner’s wife was nice enough, she could cook some, and canned beans over a campfire sounded better than it was. Besides, the sheriff had told him he couldn’t make any more campfires after that one little accident.
The Cowboy knocked the dirt off his chaps and moseyed up to the bar. “Gimme a sarsaparilla,” he told the barkeep.
‘
“Stan,” his father said, “You aren’t allowed in here. I don’t have sarsaparilla, so go in the back, get some milk, and wait for dinner. Make sure you sweep up the dirt you tracked in and put your bike away. You don’t want someone to steal it.”
The barkeep handed the Cowboy a broom, and a few of the customers snickered. He shot them a hard look and they quieted down soon enough. “I’ll stable Bullet in the barn," he thought, "but only Dirty Jack would be crazy enough to steal him!”
After the chores, the Cowboy went in back to the kitchen. The cook had a soft spot for him, so she had made his favorite, a big pot of chili. “Wash your hands and take your hat off,” she said. After washing up, he went to the icebox and poured himself a big glass of sarsaparilla from the carton, then went to the table and sat down. He thought he ought to say howdy.
“Howdy yourself,” said the cook. “Any luck finding the Millers’ dog? I heard that Jack Stephenson was looking for him, too. That’s a pretty big reward, but Fury’s a purebred bulldog.”
“Dirty Jack looking for the bull?” thought the Cowboy. “Hah! He probably stole it and now he’ll show up and say he found it, that low-down varmint.”
“Good chili,” he said. The cook liked compliments.
“Cowboys don’t talk much, do they?” she replied.
He just nodded. The cook understood, she always did. She wasn’t like that bartender -- she’d never tell him to sweep the saloon. The bunkhouse was different. The Cowboy had to clean it to earn his keep, and the cook was always after him to pick it up. But his real home was the prairie, and you never have to sweep that. The Cowboy was just biding his time here 'til he felt like movin’ on.
“I wouldn’t mind a slice of apple pie,” said the Cowboy. “I’ll be turnin’ in early tonight ‘cause I got to head out at first light. That bull ain’t gonna find itself.”
“Are you going back to Carlton Park?” asked the cook.
“I ain’t settled on that yet,” replied the Cowboy. He wanted to check out Dirty Jack’s place first.
The Cowboy was up at dawn, plus a few hours. Bullet was waiting for him, eager to hit the trail that afternoon.
Dirty Jack bunked over at the Stephenson’s place. Jack was big, with a quick draw and a quicker temper. Nobody crossed him, but the Cowboy wasn’t nobody. He wasn’t spoilin’ for a fight, but he wasn’t going to run from one either.
He jumped off Bullet, grabbed his rope and checked his gun, a Smith & Wesson Squirtmaster 250. “Better safe than sorry when Dirty Jack’s around,” he thought.
The Cowboy watched the main house, but nothing stirred. “No one’s home,” he thought, “guess I’ll check the corral out back.” He opened the gate and looked around. From the barn to his right came the sounds of a bull, and a mean one at that. The Millers’ bull was well known in the Territory as downright vicious, liable to chase a man ‘till sunset and back.
He got his lariat and pistol ready. “One way or another, that animal’s coming with me. Dirty Jack’s not gonna get my reward,” thought the Cowboy. He opened the barn door, and stood face to face with 50 pounds of pure bull meanness.
The bull charged, but the Cowboy stood his ground twirling his lasso until the bull got close enough for roping. “Missed!” he thought. The bull was headed right for him. The pistol didn’t stop the bull and it just made him madder.
“Better skedaddle!” thought the Cowboy, as he ran out of the barn and quickly climbed a nearby tree, the bull running in circles and trying to jump up after him. “No bull’s gonna get the best of me!” he thought. “But what does a cowboy do next?”
Just then, a wagon pulled up, and Old Man Stephenson got out along with Dirty Jack. Things were getting mighty complicated for the Cowboy.
“Jack, get that dog!” yelled Mr. Stephenson. “Aren’t you Burt’s son? What on earth are you doing in our tree? Should I call your dad?”
“I know him, Dad,” said Jack Stephenson. “He’s a year behind me in school. I heard he was looking for the dog, too.”
Mr. Stephenson went inside the house, shaking his head. Jack managed to catch Fury and take him back to the garage. Stan climbed down from the tree, shaken. “Cowboys don’t run . . . but I ran away!” he thought, sitting on the ground, his back against the tree, head hanging low. “Time to get my bike and go home.”
Before Stan could get up, Jack was back and stood in front of him, looking him over. “Not often I find a cowboy in a tree,” he said.
“I never climbed a tree so fast in my life,” replied Stan. “That dog is mean!”
“I know. I found him yesterday, over by the creek, but he was tired and hungry, so he was easy to catch. Mrs. Miller’s coming to pick him up.”
Jack looked at Stan’s chaps and hat. “Wait here,” he said, before disappearing into the house.
A few minutes later, Dirty Jack burst through the farmhouse door. “Reach for the sky!” he shouted.
Dirty Jack was wearing a black hat, with leather chaps and a vest. They were a little small, but the Cowboy didn’t notice because in the rustler’s hands were two PowerBlasters, streaming water at him from nearly twenty-five feet away! The Cowboy was in big trouble -- he had let Dirty Jack get the drop on him.
The gunfight raged all over the neighborhood. Finally, the Cowboy and Dirty Jack were both tired, soaked, and their guns were nearly empty. Each had enough for one last shot, and the two gunfighters knew what had to be done.
The street was empty. It was either the Cowboy or Dirty Jack – only one would walk away in the end. They stood ten paces apart, guns holstered, hands by their sides, each waiting for the other to draw. The Cowboy could see Dirty Jack’s trigger finger twitch. Suddenly, they both pulled and fired. Dirty Jack’s shot went wide, but the Cowboy’s hit Jack in the chest, and he collapsed in the street.
The Cowboy stood over Dirty Jack’s lifeless body and said “Want to come over to the Hideaway? The cook’s got some pie, and the sarsaparilla’s cold.”
“Sure,” said Dirty Jack. “Let me get my horse out of the barn.”
The Cowboy and Dirty Jack rode off into the sunset together, not saying anything, until they both started singing. “I’ve got spurs that jingle jangle jingle, as I go riding merrily along.”
* * * * *
I will be out of town and away from my computer Friday through Sunday, so I will not be able to respond to any comments until Monday. My apologies.
A big "howdy" to
halfshellvenus for beta reading this.
