Paul Flepworth's Lonely Battle

An electronic mail arrived today, addressed to Latigo Flint:

Dear Latigo Flint,

My name is Paul Flepworth and I am an alpaca rancher in Northern Montana. I read about you on the computers. You are a person that I wish lived near the bar that is near my ranch. That would be mighty fine, to drink beers alongside you. We would finish our first beers at almost the same time----to you I'd say "Have another?" It would be a question and it would mean about having another beer. To me you'd say, "On such a night, with such company, I reckon it'd be a damn shame not to." Or something like that. This would be an old in-joke, no longer funny but as warm and familiar as a trusted stove. That would be mighty fine indeed.

Latigo, that goddamn mastodon is back. It tramples much as it pleases and to trample things pleases it much.

Latigo, have you seen the fine documentary film from 1995 titled: Last of the Dogmen, about that Native American tribe that lived in the wilderness of Northern Montana all the way to now, and that 'Nam sergeant, Barns, found them but he didn't tell anyone and I don't remember why?

This has happened to me near my alpaca ranch except that it's a goddamn mastodon. My Grandpappy told us stories about a mysterious mastodon but that's all we thought they was---stories. And this thinking was with me all these 50 some years until yesterday when that goddamn mastodon ran out of the woods and trampled most of my alpacas.

Latigo, I'm going now to kill that goddamn mastodon. That goddamn mastodon may in fact kill me. One or the other of us---by which I'm meaning me or that goddamn mastodon is going to be dead soon.

I wish I could have had that quiet beer of old, comfortable friendship with you Latigo Flint. I have waited to send this until the very minute that I will be walking out the door to try to kill that goddamn mastodon. This is so you will not travel here and help---which I know you would, being such hero. But it is my lonely battle---by which I mean me trying to kill that goddamn mastodon is a lonely battle that must only be fought by me.

I reckon I'll be seeing you one of these days at the big saloon in the sky. I'll be the one raising my beer as you stride in. I'll have a walking stick propped against the bar next to me. This walking stick won't be a stick at all---it'll be the tusk of that goddamn mastodon.

Your Pard'ner always,

Paul Flepworth


Words fail Latigo Flint. It's getting a little tough to see the screen right now if you know what I mean. I'll tell you this much - I'd gladly trade all the beer in Boston for just four bottles in a Northern Montana bar with Paul Flepworth. So Paul, wherever you are, and I hope to god it's not impaled on the end of mastodon tusk... "on such a night, with such company, I reckon it'd be a damn shame not to... Pard'ner."