A Real Cowboy

I always wanted to be a real cowboy. A Buck-a-rue with scars on my cheeks and worn boots, I wanted my spurs to jingle and my saddle to creak and deep lines and sun burned skin decorating my face, an ugly galoot and dressing in a suit, Pert-near a disgrace. I wanted to eat out on the range under the Cottonwoods and smell of woodsmoke and sweat, clean my plate with the rub of an elbow before putting it in my pack and throwing what’s left of my coffee on the campfire before Ole Paint and I trailed back. I wanted to pitch my bedroll under the moon, gaze at the stars that cover the sky at night, go to sleep with the wind rustling cottonwood leaves, the mournful sound of the cattle lowing and the gentle words of the night hawk’s song putting the herd at ease. I wanted to be a real cowboy, not just to play the part, a real cowboy living a dream and riding my Quarter Horse. But could I stand up to the lonely times when nature turned its back on me and the wind was no longer a breeze but a cold howling wind, a biting wind and I didn’t have my wife’s arms to comfort me.