I’ve always liked the idea of cowboys…though I know the life must have been hard. It was my generation…comic books and those old Roy Rogers and Hoppalong Cassidy movies. Billy the Kid and Wyatt Earp and the toxic Doc Holiday. At seven we shot it out in the bushes behind the school with the sheriff whose name was Bobby and lived down the street. He was always the sheriff because whenever we plugged him he swore we’d just winged him and carried on. We tied him to a tree once and didn’t tell his mother for an hour…Big trouble for that.
I was sitting in the bar in Cache Creek many years later nursing a hangover and hiding from the sun…Outside there was…I’m not kidding…a hitching post and three horses saddled and tied up. At a table across the room, three cowboys..all hats and boots and nine mile squints…Drinking beer and having lunch. I ate my burger and smiled inside…hangover floated away. They still chase cows on horses out there…and they still look like they did a hundred years ago…insist on it I suppose.
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