The Cowboy

I got eyes in my head, and been behind this bar long enough to know when a somebody has dynamite with a lit fuse inside of them.

I know I don’t look like much, my grey beard is too long and my belly too big to do much besides pour whisky for drunks. But I knew the Cowboy was trouble, though of course I couldn't tell how. 

Hot as a two-dollar pistol, the air was thick with the stink from the cattle yards. The street sounds were drowned out by Joe singing in the corner like he did when the drink got to him, toneless Irish songs in his strong brogue. The caterwauling was not too loud, and I was used to it, just another day. The Cowboy walked into the Saloon and paused at the door, head moving side to side, giving me a chance to look this stranger over. Usually they came in twos or threes, only the brave or stupid walked alone in Abilene, Kansas.

Tensed like an over-tightened spring the Cowboy was not much to look at, short and lean, covered in dust from the trail. The cotton shirt and duster jacket, boots and sweat-stained hat were worn but good quality. Just another of the hundreds of cow punchers coming through town every month, most of them worthless as teats on a bull. The dust line from the kerchief was over the nose, highlighting the weak-jawed, clean shaven face. I was at my usual spot in the corner of the bar, polishing a glass that didn't need polishing, and wiping an already clean bartop. I have seen many cowboys in this town, bringing in cattle for the trains headed east. All ages and from all nations. But something about this Cowboy was off, like a square peg stuck in a round hole. I glanced down at my shotgun, loaded and ready. The hard, blue-tinged spark deep in the Cowboy's eye let me know I might need it. 

“Whisky.”  

“We have beer too, still cold-” Offering up my highest- profit, least fight-inducing beverage.

“Just whisky.” The Cowboy’s voice was all breath, a huff, not deep and not natural either. Nodding over at Irish Joe. “Can you get that man to shut up? He sings like a dog dying.”  

I shrugged. “He bought his drink.”

The Cowboy gave me a side look, and walked over to Irish Joe. “I need you to shut it.”

Joe looked up with watery red eyes while he paused, considering his options. Obviously didn't think much of this Cowboy because after a deep breath he started in, even louder. The Cowboy grabbed Joe by his thinning hair and in one quick move slammed Joe's forehead into the table, ending his song. 

Back at the bar, the huff voice started again.

“I’m looking for a man, a boy more like- James Johnson. I heard he works with a local outfit who drink here, the Black Bar-” The glass in my hand slipped out and shattered against the hard floor. “-heard of him?”

“What outfit you with?” I said, sidestepping the question. “I hear the Lazy M brought in some cattle today?” 

The deep blue eyes just stared in answer. I kicked the glass shards deeper under the bar. “It might jog my memory if you let me know why you are looking for him.” I said. 

“I’ve a message from his family. I heard James was in Abilene, and this was the first chance for me to get here. I need to get it to him.”

“The Black Bar guys do come in here.” I gritted my teeth at the thought. “You could wait and ask them, though they don’t take kindly to strangers.” I scratched my beard. “Take a load off. You want some stew, I can pour you some?” 

“Mighty kind.” The Cowboys shoulders dropped, and I could see the tension unwind, loosening up whatever this Cowboy gripped so tight inside. “I’m with the Triple X. We brought in a thousand head this morning from Texas.” 

“Triple X? You work for Duke Hilbo? “ I smiled. “He was my good buddy! We had quite a time-”

“-He’s dead. Sorry if you were his friend. Head stove in by a steer. I'm Range Boss now.”  

I looked again at the narrow shoulders of this character, adjusting my original opinion. “That's a tough job, that is what, four hundred miles?”

“No, five. We lost a few head, but I am going to deal with that.” The Cowboy’s lip curled into a sneer.  

“I'm Bobby Joe. What are you called?" I reached back to the large cast iron pot to pour some stew when loud voices at the door interrupted me. 

 Four men came in, laughing and cursing with the rolling gait of men who spent their lives on horseback. The first three were large men, with thick black mustaches and the black, flat hats of the Black Bar crew. The fourth was a small, dark complexioned man with angry blue eyes. Young and thin, a faint fuzz of a mustache was just starting on his face. 

The tallest one, Henry, took one step inside, stopped and glared toward me, waiting. Last time he was here he killed a man and I shouted down my shotgun barrel he better not come back. But, that is why I stopped playing poker, everyone could read my bluffs. I looked away. Henry smiled and pushed the young fellow hard in the shoulder. “Get the drinks, Jimmy.”

Jimmy walked up and with his eyes on the floor, threw some coins on the bar and I handed him a bottle and four glasses. His bruised and battered face looked like he had been at the wrong end of hickory stick. I felt sorry for him, he had no toughness in him. Melted down, he couldn’t be poured into a fight. There was something in his eyes though that looked familiar. After I handed him the bottle I folded my arms and nodded toward the Cowboy. “Someone is looking for you Jimmy. Says it’s about your family.” 

The young man looked scared but I didn't see any recognition in his eyes as he looked over to the Cowboy. “I don't got no family, at least none above ground.”

“James Johnson, from Fort Worth? I have something for you. Can we sit a spell?” The Cowboy asked.

Jimmy looked at me and I nodded encouragement. He brought the drinks to Henry and then walked to the back of the bar. The Cowboy grabbed a bottle and two glasses from me and they sat together at a table. Jimmy slipped down in his chair like he was about to get a scolding from his mother.  

Suddenly remembering I needed to re-stock some inventory, I walked to the far end of the bar and bent over to grab a few bottles, and to eavesdrop. 

“James, you don't know how long I have been looking for you. I am… I am carrying a message from your mother. She is looking for you, wants to know how you are-”

“-My mother? She left me with GrandMama when I was 4 years old, and never came back. I thought she was dead. She slept with some drifter and then didn't even stay to raise her bastard. She's dead to me anyway.” James’ voice was sharp and loud. 

“Your mother- “The Cowboy paused, staring down at callused and weathered hands as they clenched into fists. “She wasn’t cut out for being a mother, wasn’t built for it. And she didn't sleep with a drifter; she was rap-, assaulted.” The Cowboy’s head dipped to the side, looking intently at Jimmy. “Nevermind about that. She had to leave you with Grandma Sallie. “But now you are grown, a man. She wants to reconnect. Here-” 

The Cowboy’s hands pulled a folded letter out of a shirt pocket, then paused.

“Can you read?”

Jimmy gave a short nod. 

The Cowboy tried to hand it over, but Jimmy would not lift his arms above the table, so the letter was set down. It looked small and thin on the rough wooden table. They both looked at it, not moving. 

“Do you want a drink?” The Cowboy poured two glasses of whisky too quickly, spilling. “Or something to eat? I can get it for you-”

“I want nothing to do with that woman. She left me, and I’ve been getting kicked around ever since.” His face turned into a petulant frown. “That is why I left Texas, get a fresh start up here. I got a job now.” Jimmy said into his chest. 

“Yah, how is it going? Your crew don't seem to treat you right.” The Cowboy leaned back, frowning. “I have heard about the Black Bar. Nothing good, just thugs along the Chisholm Trail stealing cattle, their solid brand covering up-”

“Who are you?” Jimmy interrupted, staring at the unopened letter. 

“James- Jimmy, I - am your uncle…” The huff voice cracked. 

“I never heard about no uncle?” Jimmy’s face twisted in confusion.

‘Jimmy!” One of the Black Bar crew yelled. “Stop gabbing and get us some of that stew.”

Jimmy stood up. “I have a job here, and I got no family that I care to know about.” 

The Cowboy’s eyes narrowed, shooting daggers at the back of the large men a few tables away. 

“Come with me- I got a good gig at the Triple X now, a ranch down south in Texas, I can get you on, it is real work-” The Cowboy grabbed Jimmy’s hand, gripping it tight. “Think about it, please?”

“Jimmy!” Henry was suddenly at the table. “What the hell is keeping you boy?”

“This here is my Uncle. We’re done.” Jimmy pulled back his hand.

“You with Black Bar?” The Cowboy asked in a slow, huffy drawl. “ You happen to see some extra cattle in your herd? We’re missing about 30-40 head, and I think you-” 

 “What are you saying-” Henry’s face was red, his mustache jumped all over his face. 

“I'm just asking to take a look...” The Cowboy fingered the whisky bottle.

“I did not see any of those X-X-Xs-” Jimmy shook his head, looking at Henry. “Not in our pen, not today-”

“-Jimmy! Shut your mouth.” Henry’s arm flew out, backhanding Jimmy. He took it full on the cheek, dropping over in a heap. 

The Cowboy stood up. “Don’t touch that boy again.” 

Henry grinned and laughed, and kicked Jimmy hard. “I suggest you keep to your own business mister, I am just educatin’ this boy on keeping his mouth shut when men are talking.”  

All in one motion the Cowboy picked up and swung the whisky bottle in a short, tight arc, ending on Henry's head. He fell sideways from the blow, the bottle exploding into hundreds of shards, whisky splashing across the room.    

Then, as if it materialized out of thin air, a Colt 45 enormous in the Cowboys small hand pointed at the other Black Bar men. 

“Take your man and get out.” 

I stepped over to the shotgun, and watched the Black Bar men get Henry on his feet and out the door. 

The Cowboy pulled Jimmy up and pushed him back into the chair. Holstering the gun, the sweat stained cowboy hat was tossed over the letter. The Cowboy had small fine features under short and thin rough cropped hair. Bells rang in my head but I didn't know why. 

“Oh Jimmy.” The Cowboy leaned in close, pulling off the kerchief and using it to wipe the blood off Jimmy’s mouth. 

“You're just like me- you have a strength inside of you. You just have to embrace who you are. Not what other people want you to be. I choose to look like this to be able to live my life. You can too. Be who you are." The Cowboy’s whole body released. "Believe me it will make everything else make sense.” The tension left, and the Cowboy shrunk somehow, just a small and scared person.  

“I care for you. I want you to come with me. We can start over, or at least I can help you get a start on your own life, away from these- damn criminals…” 

The Cowboy paused. In a soft, high pitched voice, “Jimmy, I am your mother, and I love you-”

Jimmy’s jaw dropped and he pushed himself to a standing position. 

“You can live your truth!” The Cowboy reached for Jimmy. “The world is hard, but there is a place for you to be you, to use your strengths-” 

Jimmy stepped away, hands flailing.   

“I understand if you can’t….If you choose to stay, at least let me give you some money-” 

The Cowboy’s hat was back on, a bundle of bills landed on top of the unread letter. 

 “I don't want nothing from you- stay away!” James shrieked, cheeks wet and glistening. “My mother is dead! I don't even know who the hell you are. I don't want anything to do with you. You are not my mother!” 

His voice echoed in the Saloon, the only other sounds were hard boots on the wooden walkway.

Five men walked in, all in black, flat hats and all with fists gripping leveled steel.

Henry, his head wrapped in several bandanas leaking blood, was in the front.

“What did you just say- mother?” Henry looked at the Cowboy, his head tilting. Henry swung his pistol and whipped the Cowboy's face. The Cowboy’s head snapped around, and feet shuffled, but stayed standing, spitting blood onto the floor. 

Henry walked up and ripped the Cowboys shirt down, exposing a soft belly and cloth wrapped around flattened breasts. 

“Oh damn! What do we have here. We are going to have fun with you-”

The glint never left the Cowboys eyes. “Better men than you have tried, and they are all in pine boxes.” The Cowboy said, voice flat. “One of us is dying today.”

Henry walked up and brushed his hand across the Cowboys cheek. “I am looking forward to-" 

A shot rang out and Henry flew back, landing on a chair before hitting the ground. Black powder smoke drifted from Jimmy’s pistol. The Cowboy's Colt 45 spoke loud, once- twice.

“Put your pistols down.” I said, looking down the barrel of my shotgun at the rest of the Black Bar men.

“Don’t mess with my family.” Blue-tinged sparks shot from Jimmy's eyes. And I finally recognized the hard edge in his eyes as I looked back and forth between the two. I was wrong about a lot that day. Appearances don't amount to a hill of beans in this world, and Jimmy had more guts than you could hang on a fence. He had been trying to leave his family behind, but that grit was with him the whole time. They walked out together, a matched set.