Friday, September 02, 2005

The Journal of the Nameless Cowpuncher

I have posted few things to this weblog of which I am truly proud. The following happens to be one of them. It contains all I adore, and I can smell every word if you know what I mean. The bummer is that it isn't mine--it was writ some many years ago by a nameless cowpuncher.

Happy Labor Weekend America. Peace and hope to the New Orleans. Um, to the rest of 'yall in the world... erm... don't hate us 'cause we're awesome. (And stuff.)



From the archives: April 4, 2005


The Journal of the Nameless Cowpuncher

Latigo Flint found the Journal of the Nameless Cowpuncher to be extremely moving. The journal is currently on display in Los Angeles at a very prestigious history museum. The museum recently lent the journal to Latigo Flint. This was quite an honor; museums are typically rather asshole-ish when it comes to letting people borrow their stuff.

Since the museum probably won't ever let you borrow it, I'll tell you the last ten entries so you know how it ends:

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July 17, 1874
It was dang hot today. I don't much like punchin' cows. That sway-backed steer keeps trying to bite me. I think I'm gonna shoot him when Boss ain't lookin'.

July 18, 1874
Even hotter today. Cookie's stew gave me the wind something fierce. Too hot to bother shooting the sway-backed steer who keeps trying to bite me. Accidentally dropped my favorite neckerchief into a ravine.

July 19, 1874
Day dreamt about Sarah today. Was lost in pleasant recollection of the way she brushes her gingham bonnet from her pretty face, her laughing eyes, sweet smile... Then that sway-backed steer tried to bite me and I couldn't get her image back. One of the Allen twins hit the other one over the head with Cookie's bone rasp.

July 20, 1874
Boss got sunstroke today and went plumb out of his mind. He said he could hear the cows whispering of escape. Boss sat in a barrel of water and said we weren't moving one more inch until someone counted all the cows. I drew the short straw. That sway-backed steer follered me around all day long trying to bite me.

July 21, 1874
Today we had to shoot three hundred and forty seven of our cows. I must have accidentally counted some of the cows twice 'cause this morning Boss ran out of his tent waving the inventory above his head, ranting and raving about "infiltrators". I tried to persuade Boss that the sway-backed steer was one of 'em, but Boss ran his nose across the steer's back and said it didn't smell like an infiltrator.

July 22, 1874
It rained a little today and we were all mighty glad. Out here on these plains anything that settles the dust, even if only for a spell, is proof of the Lord's mercy. For some reason Cookie looked awful guilty as he ladled the stew into our bowls this evening. I actually don't want to know.

July 23, 1874
All morning long we had no idea where Boss was. One of the Allen twins finally found him 'round about lunch time. Seems Boss had come upon a large prairie dog colony about three miles west of camp, and spent most of the night and all morning bringing 'em cactus berries. I'm startin' to suspect there's something very wrong with Boss.

July 24, 1874
Seven mean looking range wolves jumped that sway-backed steer in a narrow gully this afternoon. I was the only one around and was fixin' to back quietly away and let 'em finish him off like I'd always wished upon him, 'cept for some reason I couldn't. Even though that sway-backed steer is always trying to bite me, I've come to kinda like the old boy. The last wolf did nick me on the shin while I was reloading, but it's little more than a scratch. As thanks for saving his life, that sway-backed steer tried to bite me.

July 25, 1874
There's something powerful wrong with my leg where that wolf scratched me yesterday. The fever's coming up on me too.

August 1 or maybe 2, 1874
Pretty and kind as she is, Sarah's gonna have no trouble finding another man who wants to marry her. This makes me mighty happy and mighty sad at the exact same time. I wonder if

*****************************
And that's how it ended. Latigo Flint wonders if the museum curator noticed the three or four smudgedy tear stains at the bottom of the last page when he returned the journal. If she did, she was kind enough not to mention it.

6 Comments:

At 9:10 AM, Blogger tabitha jane said...

i'm not surprised that steer tried to bite him. that man had been punching him every day for a living!


do you think he turned into a wherewolf?!

 
At 9:42 AM, Blogger OldHorsetailSnake said...

Ya know, that's the same ending this story had the last time I read it. Should be six or seven teardrops on it, by now, since they let that tome out so often.

 
At 11:22 AM, Blogger Lightning Bug's Butt said...

I remember this one well. Latigo Flint should publish a book of his stuff. Like reruns of the Simpsons, his posts are just as good the second, third, forth and fifth times around.

 
At 1:20 PM, Blogger Trevor Record said...

Latigo.... w-w-what happened to him, he didn't die did he? Sarah's waitin' for him!

I'm going to lock myself in the bathroom and cry now.

 
At 9:50 AM, Blogger Captain Kyle said...

the ending was actually sort of resident-evil ish. dern it!

 
At 8:10 PM, Blogger Latigo Flint said...

No Tabitha Jane, I don't. I think he was buried in a shallow grave with his boots on and desert creatures scattered his bones.

You surely do spit in Alzheimer's face Old Hoss. It is glorious to behold.

Thank you LBB. Harper Collins has thus far refused to return my calls.

Not only that my innocent Canadian friend... The dirt was still loose on his shallow grave when Sarah married an asshole. (My response was similar to yours.)

I see that Captain Kyle, I do.

(Okay, no I don't, but I'm going to pretend I do and then quickly do some internet research.)

 

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