Bolly Me Not on the Lone Prairie

My hoss was restless when I woke. Snortin’ and stampin’ something fierce, grumblin’ and whinnyin’, champin’ at the bit.

I glanced around camp. Everything looked normal, at first. Cookie already cooking flapjacks and gritty coffee. Butch already with the wheezes, humming into that old harmonica of his, like he allus did, soon’s the sun comes up. Clive whittling by the fahr, same as allus.

Agh, I can’t do the whole accent all the time. It hurts my throat, and that coffee won’t help. And there ain’t no tea on the lone prairie-

Oh, no…

Where did Boone get that guitar? He can’t play, someone stop him!

Too late, he’s crooning!

“Bury me not on the lone prairie / Where coyotes howl and the wind blows free…”

And will you, nil you, we’re all up and dancing, singin’ along off-key and loud, shuffling around Cookie, who thankfully is playing the dying guy, so that my flapjacks don’t burn. His voice warbles in the tenor line, but it’s still better than slappin’ extra butter on blackened flapjacks. With coffee that tastes crunchy. That’s about as unnatural as all this caperin’ about that we’re doing at the base of a mountain that looks suspiciously like the Matterhorn.

Come to think of it, I’d better check an atlas. And a map. Those mountains are certainly bigger’n any mountains I’ve seen north of the Pecos, and half our “thousand head of cattle” are much smaller, and rather goat-shaped.

Mercifully, the guitar stops plunking. I squat gratefully beside Cookie, and get my well-earned meal. I don’t know about you, but cowboy boots aren’t meant for dancing anything other than a boot-scootin’ boogie, and I SWEAR TO GAWD BOONE YOU TRY PICKIN’ YER PLUNKER UP AGIN SO HELP ME Y’ALL BE PICKIN’ YER SCATTERED TEETH OFF’N THE GROUND! LET A BODY EAT IN PEACE FOR SAM HILL’S SAKE!!

Better eat these things ‘fore they get cold. And someone starts plunkin' agin.

I swear, it’s a cowboy curse.

But what do I know about it? I’m just a millionaire’s sole heir, trying to earn my prospector father-in-law’s respect. No, that’s not a typo for prospective – I fell in love with a prospector’s daughter, and the over-protective papa thinks I’m after her for her meager dowry.

But I’m the good guy. I’m wearing a white hat, how did he miss it?

My daddy could buy his whole mountain range, with a few lesser ones to boot, if he wanted to. But I haven’t told him, or his lovely daughter, because he’s ornery enough to push me off a rocky mountain high just after the wedding, to claim my inheritance as the widow’s father-

“Oooohhhh, Rocky mountain hiiiiiiiiiiiigh….”

Aw, hail and tarnation!

‘Scuse me while have to do another infernal dance scene. But why does my partner always have to be Nash, who has two left feet? No, really, he does, take a peek while I’m a-twirlin’ him…

“Collllll-aaaahhhh-raaaaaah-dohhhhhh…”

Nash, I’m’a gonna twirl ya right over here to my bedroll, scoop it up for me, will ya? Right, now shake it around like it’s a feather boa like them ladies that Asher likes, near the saloon. Now, give it a quick, tight roll while I’m nudging Shane to do the same thing over here. Remington, you good? Great, that’s camp struck! Soon as Boone is done twangin’ away, let’s go! Cookie, can ya clean up quick? Harness up them mules, make the chuck wagon a part of the song's ending?

One thing, I will say, is the landscape gets mighty purdy when we’re singin’. All the colors get real deep, greens and golds and spangles ever’where, sunrise a blaze of colors, enough ta make ya cry. Then, song’s over, and we’re back in sepia tones and dried sage and so, so many, shades of sad beige.

“Friends around the campfire, everybody’s hiiiiiiiiigh…”

Right! Campfire, great idea! Circle the campfire, Cookie, cue the wagon, we twirl around again, strike a pose! Boone, if you segue into the Madonna song, I will beat you with your own guitar. Now, everyone, while we have a breather, saddle up your horses!

“Saddle up your horrrrr-sessss, we got a trail to blaze…”

I may have to shoot Boone to put him out of our misery. But we’re not dancing this time, so it’s time for a scene change. Jaunty little tune, rather inspirational, a good one to wrangle cattle to the next river crossing.

Baaaaa!

I’m… I’m not gonna even respond to that.

“Let's follow our leader into the glorious unknown / this is the life like no other whoa whoa / this is The Great Adventure...”

Right. Okay then, move ‘em out! Move along!

“Yippee-ki-yi-yo, move along little doggies…”

Didn’t miss a beat there, did ya, Boone? I shoot a sympathetic glance at Butch, mention that if he needs a break, let me know. He shoots me a thumbs up.

Alrighty, then.

Running a cattle drive is long, slow days, punctuated by occasional terror. Nighttime thunderstorms, stray doggies, the occasional stampede. But in between, it’s just you and your thoughts, hundreds of miles of sand, dust, and occasional scrub. Jack rabbit, if you’re lucky. Jackalope, if you’re unlucky. Or hallucinations, lots of that. A peaceful place, where a person can let a mind go blank, where occasional twanging or harmonica buzzing gets lost in the lows of cattle and the baaaas of… other, littler, cattle.

And there hasn’t been rain in a long, long time. For weeks now, the skies are not cloudy all day.

“Oooooh give me a hooome, where the buffalo roooooam…”

Aw, dodgasted, Boone, go to Jericho, you and that banjo of yours!

Nope, no use. At least the horses are makin’ good time, and the mules and cattle seem to like it too. I won’t say we’s marchin’ in formation, but there’s less mutiny and less bellyaching. ‘Least we don’t have to stop an’ do a dancin’ number or something.

***

It was a long, long, long, loooooong, day.

It din’t get much better, neither.

Got to the river, got the cattle ‘cross. Fished lost calves outta same, got ‘em back with their mamas. Spread out enough hay to get them to Dodge City. Put down hay for the hosses, and the mules. Hot, sweaty work. Time for a quick dip in the river, once it ran a bit clear again, to take off most of the grit.

It’s a hard life. I’ll be glad to go back to my old life. I worked hard, but not like this. Who would want to grow up, to do this?

“Mama, don’t let yer baybeeees grow up to be cowboys…”

I swore, stood up again. Time to get sweaty all over agin, where’s Nash, oh look, there he is, right on schedule…

But this time, on the third twirl, Nash’s hat fell off.

And a whole bunch of thick, soft, cascading hair tumbled down.

I knew that hair.

I knew this face! How did I miss it before?

The musical number stopped short. In the silence, I stared at my beloved, giggling in my arms. “Maya? What? How?”

“I joined the cattle drive dressed as a man, silly. I’ve been here the whole time! Swiped the cobbler's display boots, forgot that they're all for left feet. You never noticed, so I decided to see if you meant what you said to me, or if I was another distraction on the way to Dodge City.”

“Maya, you’ve seen what we’ve got for women-folk out here. Very few sage hens, and mostly madams, working for madams, or slinging the booze in a saloon. Which may be fine for Asher, no shame in any of that, but it’s not really for me-”

She moved in to kiss me, but right before our lips touched, I was swung back into a finale of all finales, and Boone started beltin’ out “I should've been a cowboy / I should've learned to rope and ride / Wearin' my six-shooter / Ridin' my pony on a cattle drive…”

Maya giggled again as we twirled, some romantic square dancing. “You weren’t ‘specting a happy ending this soon, were you?” she teased playfully.

“I wasn’t even ‘specting one in Dodge City neither. I don’t know how I was still going to prove my worth to your father, I feel like Hercules and his labors, multiplied by a factor of five.”

“Well, that’s ended. Your behavior this time convinced him.” She nodded over at Cookie, waving his battered hat. And his false beard and wig, cackling gleefully.

Cookie? My prospector father-in-law?

Cookie whooped and whooped so hard, well, it was close, his tail almost fell right off. Head was already gone if you count the hat, beard, and wig. Luckily Boone missed that cue, I wouldn’t want to even try dancing that one.

That night, and the next day right into Dodge City, were a dream. The cattle behaved, Boone behaved, horses and mules and Cookie behaved. The judge was rather amenable to gettin' us hitched, though he did look askance at Maya’s britches.

Maya’s woman enough to be a man, mule, or whatever she wants to be, so we finally got our I Do’s said.

And yes, we rode into the sunset. We done got outta Dodge, for certain.

Cookie waved us off; he said he’d catch up with us at home, give us some private time. Said we’d both earned a respite from his flapjacks.

But as we ambled off, I could hear Boone plunkin’ again… “Happy trails to you, till we meet again…”