THE LAST AMERICAN COWBOY

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

Clickity klack, clickity klack, clickity klack........................., the train seemed to glide over the vast prairies of western Oklahoma. The distant horizon.... endless in every direction. These are the flat lands; the wheat fields and cattle pastures stretch un-broken, as far as the eye can see, with not a tree, shrub or rock to break the monotony. Occasionally broken down wind mills can be seen standing as a testament to the harshness of the land; a constant reminder that nature still rules. In this country, wind is the enemy and a constant force with which to be reckoned. Some try as best they can to pump water from far below the surface to stock tanks where cattle gather to drink, lie, sleep, and bake in the sun. The sun, the eternal sun, constantly fries and sears the earth and all that inhabit it. The windbreaks; those ever so pathetic thin lines of trees stand un-kept and un-tended, left over from the days of the dust bowl. Even now, in 1948, they stand alone against the relentless wind; trying feebly to protect the soil they were tasked to do so long ago. Not knowing that those who asked them to perform the task are now gone and those that remain have forgotten any assignments were ever given.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a cloud of yellow-grey dust appears. And, as the train passes, a weathered, old man on a tractor emerges from the cloud he and his tractor have themselves created while working the dry earth, waving at the travelers passing by on the train, that he obviously couldn't see. Clem started to instinctively return the wave, but withdrew his hand, knowing the man would never see him. "Why would anyone live here?" Clem asked himself. The only answer that made any sense was that they were born here. They probably didn't know of any other life. Maybe they never had dreams or never knew that there were other places on earth to live that were less harsh, less un-inviting. "But who am I," thought Clem, "to make such a judgment?" These people probably believed as surely as there is a God in heaven that this was the best place on the planet. They probably wished to live nowhere else. This was their home. This was their heaven. "Maybe Oklahoma is my home," thought Clem. "Maybe the place on earth I have selected, the West, is an illusion, a mere dream, a distant horizon, having no reality, no substance."

"Have I made a terrible mistake?" he asked himself, as his mind became dulled by the monotonic sounds of the train. Will the West he had read about in all those wonderful books, the stories of cattle barons, cowboys, and adventures, be a foreign place to him just as it undoubtedly would be to the people who live here on these prairies? To the man on the tractor? But, he had to remember why he was leaving Oklahoma. Why he had decided to go west. He knew when he made that decision it was the only decision he could make. He loved his grandparents dearly. If it weren't for them he didn't know where he would be, probably raised in an orphanage. But when his mom died, they were there for him. If it weren't for them, he wouldn't have these ideas, these dreams. Well, maybe it wasn't all because of them. His dad certainly had a lot to do with trying to teach him about dreams and trying to make dreams come true.

Dad. No matter how hard he tried, he knew he could never forget that night when his mom told him that his father was dead; killed in that awful accident. "A freak accident," they said. "Happened only rarely to cowboys on the rodeo circuit," they said. Rarely does a bull just fall on top of a cowboy. A top bull rider like dad. Dad, a first- rate bull rider. "Dead," his mom said. "Your father is dead." He will never forget those awful words. Terrible words for a ten-year-old boy. "Your father, Jim Barnett, is dead. Killed by a bull at the Cheyenne rodeo."

But Clem knew his father had his own dreams; to be the top bull rider, to be cheered by the crowds, to make a good living for his family, for him and his mom to be proud of him. A top bull rider. The best. It was the only thing his dad knew how to do. He had done it for so long, he didn't know how to do anything else. He loved it. Clem used to love hearing his dad tell the stories about the rodeo, the towns, the cowboys, the bronc riders, bareback and saddlebronc, calf ropers and steer wrestlers, the bad bulls, the good rides, the stories Clem could listen to time and again. Sometimes the same stories, sometimes different. He could remember his mother's face, excited, and her wide eyes as she sat listening to the stories, the dreams of her husband. The dreams they all shared. The biggest and best rodeos. What a great life they would all have.... someday. The good times would soon be there for them all. Then.... the words...., "your father is dead." With those few words went the promise of good times, gone were the dreams.

There were many days of sorrow following those words..... and loneliness. Mom was often away. Alcohol became her friend. Alcohol was her method of escape. It devoured her soul and eventually her life. They said she died of alcoholism. That was what he was told. But that wasn't the real truth. Even a ten year old boy knew what a broken heart was; knew that a broken heart can kill. Kill just as easily and surely as a ton of bull crushing bones and liver and lungs.

After the funeral, there were his grandparents. Holding him. Assuring him of their love. They had loved their son, their only son. To have him killed in the prime of his life was tragic for them as well. They would never forget.

"It all seems so senseless," Clem remembered his grandfather saying. "So senseless."

But, the years passed. Life on the farm near Tahlequah, Oklahoma with his grandparents was a good life for a young boy. Better than living in Tulsa where his parents had lived. He enjoyed working the farm with his grandparents. His grandparents raised cattle and horses and grew a few crops. His grandfather was not only a farmer, but a hunter, well, a fox hunter, anyway. Actually, the fox hounds, not he, did the hunting. He and his grandfather and occasionally one or two other fox hunters with their assortment of hounds, Red Bones, Running Walkers, Trigs, and other breeds, would often sit out at night in some lonely place, and while stoking a campfire and passing around a jug of moonshine whisky, listen to the hounds. Listen to their bark and yip, coarse mouths, fine mouths, while chasing red fox, gray fox. Finally, Clem dosed off in a sleep, lulled by the monotonous sounds of the train as it raced across Kansas and Nebraska, remembering his life on a farm in northeastern Oklahoma and where his dreams would soon take him.

Suddenly, he was awakened by the clash and banging of the train slowing for its next stop. "Where are we?" Clem mumbled to the man sitting next to him, while rubbing his eyes.

"Cheyenne!" said the stranger.

"Cheyenne, Wyoming?" asked Clem.

"Where else?" said the man, apparently irritated by the question, as he began to get out of his seat.

"Cheyenne!" yelled the conductor, a thin, lanky, grey-haired man, adjusting his eye glasses that had fallen down on his nose. "Everybody off.......... changing trains for all those not going on to Deadwood."

As Clem looked out the window, he could see the hustle and bustle of what seemed to be a city, but he knew that Cheyenne was not a city, but only a hub, a train hub and a hub for cattle markets. "Cattle markets! Boy, did that sound good," thought Clem. "Is this finally the West?" he asked himself.

As he stepped off the train onto the firm ground again, he thought of how good it felt. The silence seemed to overwhelm him, no constant "clickity klack", and no monotonous roar of the train engine. "Where's a guy get something to eat?" Clem asked the conductor.

"The Angus Bar and Cafe!" yelled the man, "Just down the street," pointing his long, boney, finger.

Clem grabbed his satchel full of a change of clothes and other trappings to get him through a couple of stops on his journey to Montana. "You folks will be transferred to your westbound train in the morning ... okay?" said the conductor.

"Yea." said Clem, "See you in the morning."

Cheyenne was definitely a western town. Clem didn't exactly know why he thought that, but it was different than any town he'd seen in Oklahoma. Maybe it was the smell of cows in the stock yards at the edge of town, maybe the sky seemed more blue, the clouds more white, maybe it was the people around him. He couldn't put his finger on it. "Oh what the hell," he thought. A cold beer sounded good, and that was all that mattered, for now, a cold beer and something to eat.

The Angus Bar and Cafe seemed just like what he had pictured in his mind that a western restaurant should look. It consisted of a long, shiny wooden bar, an assortment of whisky bottles, several types of beer, several small wooden tables and chairs, a darkened area with muffled sounds of talk, occasional blasts of laughter and smell of stale beer. There was an assortment of pictures on the walls. Pictures of days gone by. Pictures of how the old place used to look. How Cheyenne used to look. Pictures of people at the bar. Pictures of how they dressed back then. Mostly in suites, ties, old boots, and most wearing hats, strange hats, not all cowboy hats, but top hats, round hats. And, of course, spittoons scattered along the bar for the convenience of the patrons.

"Gimme' a cold one," said Clem.

"A beer?" questioned the bartender.

"Yeah, anything as long as it's cold," said Clem.

"Just off the train?" asked the man sitting next to him.

"Yeah. Headed to Montana," said Clem.

"Montana?" said the man as he looked directly into Clem's eyes.

These were a different kind of folk than he knew in Oklahoma. They always seemed suspicious, curious, and anxious to know more about a stranger. Oh, they were kind, for the most part, considerate, but independent and suspicious. In Oklahoma they'd slap you on your back, ask you into their home for supper or coffee, then ask you the questions, "Where you from? Where you headed? Who's your pappy? Your wife? Got kids?" and most importantly, "What do you do to earn your money?" In the West, if the folks from Cheyenne were any representative, they would just look you in the eyes long and hard enough, and then you'd give 'em all of that information voluntarily, or else. You just weren't sure what the 'or else' was, it was just a definite feeling. However, if they felt they knew you, you were their friend for life. In Oklahoma, you weren't quite sure about that 'friend for life' stuff.

The steak and potatoes were delicious. The beer was cold. The company was well...... interesting. "Good beef!" Clem told the bartender.

"Comes from the Sweetwater country. Good grass out there," said the bartender. "More?"

"Naw," said Clem. "Better get some rest. Long day tomorrow. Which direction to the hotel?"

"The Laramie?" asked the stranger sitting next to him.

"Yeah, I guess," said Clem.

"Just out to the left, across the street and look left. You'll see the flashing sign," explained the bartender.

"See ya," said Clem.

"See ya," muttered the stranger.

As Clem walked out of the bar and down the sidewalk, maybe swaying just a bit from all that beer, he felt the chill through his light wool jacket. A chill he hadn't felt during the Oklahoma summers. In Oklahoma, the nights took a long time to cool and the constant humidity held in the day's warmth. It was also very noisy at night in Oklahoma. It was alive with the sounds of living things..... all trying to speak at once..... the tree frogs, crickets, katydids, whip-poor-wills, the distant sound of great horned owls and bull frogs down by the river. But, here in the West, Clem thought, it was silent..... no night sounds, and it was cold and dry. It was a different place all right. But, was it one he would settle into, or would he be longing for the only home and way of life he had ever known..... those everlasting hills of Oklahoma. But, he was here in the west, and this is where he aimed to make his life.

It was too early to go to bed just yet. Still a couple of hours of daylight. Instead of turning toward the hotel, Clem began looking up at the buildings; looking into the store windows; nodding his head and greeting those he passed. He didn't know where he was going, just walking, stretching his legs after sitting on the train all day. But it seemed that he was walking towards something. Something. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something seemed to be drawing him, pulling him. All of a sudden, there it was, looming up in front of him. Coming out of nowhere. The large sign. The painted words. "The Cheyenne Rodeo ... Daddy of 'em all." He felt his heart pounding. He walked under the sign. And then, there he was, in the arena. The rodeo arena. In the same arena where his father was killed.

"Hey you! What are you doing in here? Nobody is supposed to be in here. You better leave, buddy," came a voice out of nowhere.

"Hi there," said Clem. "I'm just looking."

"Looking at what? Who are you?" asked the man.

"Name's Clem, Clem Barnett," said Clem. "I just wanted to see the place. My dad used to ride bulls here. That was a long time ago, though."

The man walked up close to Clem and looked him right in the face, staring, searching with his eyes. "By God, you are Jim Barnett's son! I bet. Aren't you?" the man asked.

"Yes," said Clem, "Did you know my father?"

"Sure did," the man said. "I knew him well. I was here the night it happened. That was in 1938, or was it in '39?" he asked.

"It was in 1938," said Clem. "Nearly 10 years ago."

"Well, anyway, I'm sure sorry about your father. Oh, I'm just a caretaker now, but I used to ride bulls, just like your dad. Well, not as good as your dad, but I sure rode 'um. Sorry about your dad," the man added. "Are you on the circuit? Ride bulls, I mean?" asked the man.

"No. No sir," said Clem. "Not me. I just want to punch cows. I'm going farther west to work on a ranch. I'm going to Montana. I just want to be a cowboy. Not a rodeo cowboy. Just a regular cowboy. I've watched men get it in their blood. The rodeo, I mean. They get hooked on it. They get addicted to it. My dad was addicted. He loved being a rodeo cowboy. But, look what it got him?" said Clem.

"I see what you mean, boy," said the man. "It sure got in my blood. After awhile I just didn't know anything else. Rodeoing was all I knew. The only thing I loved. You're a smart kid. Real smart. Stay away from the rodeo, especially the bulls. Well, you know what I mean. You go ahead, kid, you look around all you want. You take care now, sorry about your dad. He was a good man," said the man, as he limped away. Clem found himself walking around the arena, kicking up the dirt, looking up at the stands and rows and rows of seats, trying to imagine that night, the crowds roaring, cheering, then suddenly silent, the gasps, the looks of disbelief, the sight of seeing a cowboy hauled off, the announcer saying, "lets' all give that cowboy a big hand, 'cause that's all he'll get. I'm sure he'll be alright folks. Now, turn your attention to the next rider........." It all seemed so unreal. So ghastly. It was nearly dark now and getting cold, the cold was settling into his bones, as Clem walked back to the hotel.

It was even colder in the morning, but he had finally had a good nights' sleep and was eager to get on his way. He had some leftover bread from his last night's steak dinner for breakfast, swigged down a hot cup of coffee at the Laramie Hotel and was off to catch the train for another day's ride..... farther west..... to adventures he hoped.

Steam gushed from the train's engines as he approached. "Just in time," he thought. He sure didn't want to miss the train. He couldn't fathom spending more time in Cheyenne. He was anxious to get on with his discoveries of the west..... anxious to get on to Montana and start his new life, on his own.

"Mornin'!" yelled the conductor, with a wide grin on his face.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from THE LAST AMERICAN COWBOYby Mike R. Dunbar Copyright © 2009 by Mike R. Dunbar. Excerpted by permission.
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