Dusty’s day started out shitty enough. While threading his cowboy belt through the belt loops of his tight Wrangler jeans he pulled a little too hard, and the massive rodeo buckle jerked up and slammed him square in the balls. “Oh Goddam it!” he screamed in agony as he slumped to the floor and waited for the pain to subside. Well…that was just the start of it because this was going to prove to be one ball-buster of a weekend.
Jill Thrill, his main squeeze for all of three weeks was in the kitchen rustling up flapjacks and eggs while Fleabag his trusty cattle dog lay in the middle of the floor scheming on tripping up the unwary which now seemed to be her sole purpose in life. No one knew for sure just how old she was, but judging by the blindness in her right eye a good guess would be 15 years if she was a day.
Dusty was late to his chores because they had both tied one on last night at Desperados where the whiskey flowed like a mountain stream and the bullshit flowed right along with it. Jill Thrill was hung over and in no mood for lengthy conversation which was fine with Dusty because he couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t be taken as an insult because she was mighty sensitive to any constructive criticism at times like this. The flapjacks tasted like straw with a hint of sawdust and the yokes of the sunny-side-up eggs were busted. He drowned it all out with a massive pour of maple syrup which resembled molten road tar as he looked out the window contemplating what lie ahead. It was already one scorcher of a day at ten in morning, and the evaporative cooler was on the blink requiring a new motor. By eleven-thirty it would hit 105 degrees. It was Saturday, and if he hustled with the piled up weekend chores he could hit the hardware store and get the motor and install it before nightfall, so at least they could have a poke in relative comfort. So in anticipation of that he suggested to Jill Thrill that she spend the day in the comfort of air conditioning at her mother’s house. “I ain’t got a single word to say to that old bitch,” Jill Thrill screeched, and Dusty decided to let sleeping dogs lie; so now Fleabag could have some company. It had been two years since she went out to the pasture with him but that didn’t much matter as he only had five head left and three were destined for the slaughter house in mid-August after fattening up on what was left of the green spring grass. He needed the money because they had cut his hours at the auto shop, and besides, it had been a while since he had eaten any decent steak, so he would be sure to stock the freezer with a little for himself and Jill Thrill if they lasted, but he had his doubts.
He got his saddle and harness out of the tack room and hitched Rocket up and rode out on his twenty-acre spread with about twelve of it in grass and the rest covered with typical ribbonwood, sage, manzanita, and some occasional yucca. This place with its worn-down doublewide and sagging barn was nothing to write home about, but the views out over the high plateau on up to the towering mountain ranges was spectacular. The cows were languishing by the watering hole surrounded by some ancient cottonwoods and one of the expecting heifers had dropped a calf, apparently last night, with the good news being that the little fella’ was doing fine. Things were looking up. He pushed them into the upper pasture knowing that they would mosey back down to the watering hole by sunset. Then he rode out to the North fence line to finish repairing the barbwire section he had started last weekend. It wasn’t all that much of a ranch, but on any ranch the work is never truly done, so you had to break down your tasks and take solace when you were able to finish any given one. It was 1:00 in the afternoon when he road back to the barn unhitched rocket and let him go join the cows.
The truck needed an oil change, and the shop was good about letting employees use the lift if there weren’t any paying customers needing to be serviced. When he arrived there was one car already up on it so he parked the truck and decided to walk to the hardware store. Dillion said he would call him when he got a turn and already have the truck hoisted by the time Dusty got back there. Cowboys looked out for other cowboys, and this wasn’t nothing Dusty wouldn’t have done for him.
He stopped in the Dairy Queen for a vanilla cone and ambled a quarter-mile to the hardware store seeking what sparse shade the too few street trees provided as he went. The motor cost $120.00, and just as he finished paying, Dillon called so he double-timed it back to the shop. He did the oil change lickety-split and headed home, but fate intervened when he spotted Jill Thrill riding in Ralph’s Sawyer’s pickup and sitting up close next to him and talking turkey in his ear. They didn’t see him, so he tailed them to Ralph’s motley singlewide at the only mobile park in the center of town that was more of a shanty town than anything else. The locals called the place, “Loserville,” and it chagrined Dusty to think that he was being outshined by a no count like Ralph who was a known drug dealer and ne’er-do-well. Jill had previously encouraged Dusty to buy her coke but he begged off saying it was just so damned expensive and he had seen so many of his friends go bust and split town because of it. Well…just because he didn’t want to climb up on that treadmill didn’t mean that she wouldn’t, and Dusty was sure that she was going to give up her pussy to get it. Let her fuck him – why did it matter now? Dusty raced home, gathered up what few things belonged to her, and sped back to Ralph’s place. He dumped it all at the door steps, banged on the door, and waited for Ralph to come out. Ralph opened his door just a crack and shouted, “What’s up Dusty?” “Apparently your dick asshole. You can have her.” Ralph knew of Dusty’s reputation as brawler and a mauler and thought discretion the better part of valor, but Jill had no discretion at all and burst out the door screaming, “You don’t own me. I’ll do what I want.” “Go ahead and do it then. See if I care. We’re done.” She rushed at him and tried to scratch his eyes out, but he just raised his massive arms and fended her off. Ralph stepped out pointing a pistol and blurting, “You just move on now Dusty. There’s no reason to mistreat a woman.” “So’s you the gentleman now? Is that it Ralph? I’ll hit you so hard they’ll arrest you in Temecula for speeding.” Ralph gripped the pistol harder and thrust it forward and stepped closer to Dusty who put his hands out saying, “Fight like a fucking man Ralph.” “Shoot his ass off!” Jill Thrill shouted at Ralph, and as he looked towards her in shocked disbelief, Dusty snatched the pistol from his hand just as easy as pie. “Ralph, you stupid son-of-a-bitch, I ain’t going to jail over beating you senseless. Thanks for the gun.” “Fuck you!, fuck you!!, fuck you!!!,” Jill hollered at the top of her lungs as Dusty got in his truck and laid rubber roaring away. She sure wasn’t much of a enlightened conversationalist, that was for certain a bonified fact. Well… that killed any thought of having a poke that night…at least with Jill Thrill.
When Dusty got back to the ranch he immediately stormed into the barn and viciously threw twenty/thirty/forty haymakers into the heavy bag that he kept hanging there for times such as these. It got his frustrations out and sure beat dealing with the cops who he hated with an unbridled passion. With the steam now blown off, he went to his home and got to work on replacing the cooler’s motor. There was literally nothing mechanical that Dusty couldn’t fix. Growing up just like his daddy did, who grew just like his daddy did, the Well’s men were self-sufficient sons-a-bitches who lived by the code that if you needed help then look to your hands at the ends of your arms.
He made short work of installing the motor and sat at the kitchen table guzzling a Fat Tire beer with the swiftly cooling air blowing over him. He got to thinking on Jill Thrill. She sure could hold his interest in the sack, he had to give her that much. He’d miss her banging body, but it wasn’t exactly a secret that she got around. She was pretty much like all the others over the last few years. Dusty liked his woman fast in tight skirts or jeans with their cleavage popping out. Sleaze with an edginess always got his motor running but the gas always ran out quick, and this “relationship” was no different. At 34 he was the living breathing embodiment of Ray Willie Hubbard’s Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother made famous when Jerry Jeff Walker sang it back in ’73 at the inception of the Outlaw Country music movement where Willie and Waylon and a host of others hung out in Austin and dressed in black and did a variety of rollicking tunes based on fuck what the establishment thinks. In truth, he had no more insight into the innerworkings of love now than he did when he was 20. But now he was crowding 40, and all that outlaw shit was getting old. Once he passed 37 he started getting desperate concerning why he wasn’t yet married and settled down which led to a seemingly endless succession of fast to start and faster to end truly horrible relationships. Dillon liked to tease him that he might as well just walk up to a woman and say, “Hi, I’m Dusty. Do you want to get married?” Well…perhaps he should take a long hard look at how he was approaching romance in general, but for tonight, he just wanted to get laid. He was also conflicted over his run-in with Ralph Sawyer. True enough that he was a douche-bag coke dealer, but a cowboy should never take another man’s gun, even if that man stole his woman. He decided he would take out the ammo and give it back to him after work on Monday.
At six in the evening the air outside was cooling down some so he decided to saddle up Rocket and ride out to check on the newborn calf just to make sure the little rascal was doing all right. Dusty was the last of a dying breed. Cattle ranching had been a way of life in the late eighteen hundreds through the early nineteen hundreds but had given way to agriculture by the end of World War Two. By the ‘70’s it was pretty much all over but the shouting when the agricultural conglomerates moved in, swallowed up huge acreages of land, and started pumping enormous quantities of water out of the aquifer. Today, what few ranchers that were left were more like gentleman farmers than cattle barons. Dusty kept up a vegetable garden and a kitchen orchard to save on groceries but he oftentimes felt more like a hippy getting back to the land than a cowpoke driving the little doggies along.
His cell phone rang startling Rocket who he calmed before answering. It was Dillon – who else? And what else, but what it always was on Saturdays when his wife was out of town at relatives? Same shit, different weekend. “Hey buddy, I need a wingman tonight. There’s a couple of sisters I met at the shop that want to meet some real cowboys, and you know what George Straight says, ‘They call me the fireman, that’s my name.’ You want to douse a couple of hot ones? Come on; it’ll be fun! Meet me at Desperados at nine. See yeah, wouldn’t want to be yeah.” With that he hung up before Dusty could get a word in edgewise. But what was there to say, anyway? He was a single successful guy who was horny as hell and he had no one to answer to. Hell yes, he’d be there with his dancing boots spit shined, his jeans skin tight, and the rhinestone buttons on his western cut shirt gleaming. And, of course, he would be sporting his favorite partying belt with the gargantuan rodeo buckle with one of the crossed derringers detachable and loaded. Hell yes, he would be primed and ready to have a whole lotta’ fun tonight.
Desperados was a bar right out of central casting with the swinging doors, a solid oak and brass walk up counter, and bottles of every known brand of alcohol in the Western Hemisphere stacked up high in the rear and made to look even larger by the gigantic mirrors behind them. Dusty arrived at 9:15; fashionably late not wanting to appear desperate, and Dillion wasn’t there yet. The vast expanse of wood dance floor was already starting to fill up, and the music was blaring some of that new who can scream the loudest music that was really rock masquerading as country. Townes Van Zandt was probably rolling in his grave, but what the hell? Dusty wasn’t here for the music – not tonight. He spotted Dillon with the girls on each arm. They were lookers, all dolled up with big hair, bright red lipstick, and their jeans took on a life of their own as they sashayed in. Dillion was probably the guy Confederate Railroad had in mind when they recorded Redneck Romeo. He not only looked the part, but he could cut a rug with the best of them. The crowd separated and made way for them faster than Moses parted the Red Sea, and Dillon took his seat at his usual table as if he were sitting on the throne of Henry the VIII. He had a certain arrogant verve about him, Dillon did, and it was obvious to all that the royal court had arrived. Dusty walked over confidently and said, “Hey Dillion, ladies,” as he tipped his Stetson to them. Dillon made the introductions saying, “Girls, this is Dusty, the roughest toughest cowboy in these parts. Dusty, this Shawna and Shanna. Twins, as you can see. Ain’t they something?” Drinks were ordered. Idle chit chat was exchanged in. Physical features were ogled and lusted after. The twins made their selections. At the start of the first slow song Shanna took his hand and led him out onto the dance floor. Her tightly pressed body against his was telling him that tonight was going to be a good one, and his crotch was telling her that he was up for it. The next song was one that Dusty could actually stomach and he and Dillion and the girls really burned up the hardwood with some fancy dancing to Alan Jackson’s Chasin’ That Neon Rainbow and as Alan finished singing, “Oh, I’m chasing that neon rainbow / Living that honky-tonk dream,” Shanna whispered in his ear, “Time to saddle up and ride cowboy. Let’s get out of here.”
Well…this evening was really starting to take off…and then the shitshow began to commence as Ralph Sawyer and three other dipshits who were obviously rough trade made a beeline up to them. “Got a bone to pick with you, Dusty,” Ralph, obviously emboldened by his cohorts, blurted out. Shanna’s body tingled under his arm as she sensed more than a hint of danger. “Look Ralph, I let you off the hook today. I’m even considering giving you back your gun come Monday. But if you fuck this up for me (he tipped his head towards Shanna) there will be hell for you to pay.” “What’s a matter Dusty. You don’t want your ass kicked in front of your new slut?” a voice boomed out. It was Jill Thrill. Who else? Why wouldn’t it be? Dillon assumed the floor saying, “Four on two. You boys got it in you?” They were pondering that very question mighty hard and most likely would have determined that they didn’t, but Jill Thrill forced everyone’s hand as she reached out and grabbed a heaping handful of Shanna’s hair. Shawna was on her scratching for her eyes and kicking for her shins. And so it started. Dusty plowed a right straight down the pike into Ralph’s jaw and he dropped like a ton of bricks. Dillon started doing a tap dance on one of the three toughs head, and the other two grabbed hold of Dusty. Big mistake. Dusty stomped one of his shiny cowboy boots on one’s foot braking it in three places, while head butting the other who flew in reverse into the bar, and as he careened off of it Dusty sent two sharp left hooks into his ribs breaking a couple and cracking a couple more. Turing to see if Dillon was okay he was pleased to see him kicking his fallen adversary in the stomach and swearing up a storm just to gain crowd approval. Dillon sure had a flair for the dramatic, you had to hand it to him. The crowd roared their approval which they accepted like the conquering heroes that they were. Just to drive the crowd into a frenzy the girls hopped up and wrapped their long legs around both of them while slamming their tongues down their throats. The cheers from the crowd were deafening.
Could the evening really get any better than this? Well…no, unfortunately and predictably there was an all-encompassing group buzzkill as the cops came streaming through the doors with guns drawn. Fucking party poopers one and all, they immediately cuffed Dusty and Dillon. Steve Wallace the bar owner spoke up in their defense. “The other guys and that nasty bitch Jill started the whole thing. They didn’t give these guys any out. What was they supposed to do? And I ain’t pressing any charges.” The cops went into a group huddle and one then went and uncuffed Dillon. “What about Dusty?” Steve Wallace asked. “There’s other charges,” the lead cop responded. “Such as?” Dusty asked. “Such as carrying a loaded firearm, smart ass,” the cop responded as he reached down and unclicked the derringer from Dusty’s belt buckle. “It’s legal,” Dusty asserted. “You don’t have an open carry permit dumb ass,” the cop curtly replied. Dusty hung his head and said, “Don’t suppose you could let me off with a warning if I go straight home and apply for that open carry permit just as soon as possible?” “No. Not on your life. You’re coming with us.”
The holding cell at the County jail was crammed tight with weekend drunks and wife beaters, but everyone steered clear of Dusty. For his part Dillon didn’t allow his concern for his wingman to interfere with his first two on one in years, and he was able to douse the desire of both of the twins. He did have a certain panache, after all. The girls went away and back to their husbands sexually satiated and thoroughly happy.
Dusty didn’t spring for his bail and waited to see the judge in three days who he suspected would waive bail and send him home under his own recognizance, which he fortunately did. The judge even agreed to waive the $1,000.00 fine if Dusty agreed to relinquish his derringer belt, which he did. Justice was served if not Dusty’s sense of self-well-being. He would keep Ralph’s pistol for all the grief he had caused him, but it would never be as cool as that belt. Arriving home he was dismayed to see Fleabag dead as a doornail in the middle of the kitchen floor. He buried her out by the barn and went to an animal shelter and acquired a young Australian Shepard who he named Dirtbag. That’s the reaffirmation of the cycle of life – out with the old, and in with the new.
Dusty’s cowboy life wore on. Finding love was an elusive endeavor while his life in general became a deary proposition. He lightened up on the whiskey and the hellraising in order to gain clarity but is unclear if he has. As of today, Dusty awaits middle age with a certain resolve not unlike the persistence of a gnawing toothache.
The good news is that the auto shop restored his normal hours so Dusty is in no danger of losing his ranch. One day a young buck came strutting in to pick up his sports car and sparked up a conversation with Dusty in obvious awe and admiration of his cowboy persona. At least that was still intact for all the good it did him. Dusty decided to give the kid the straight skinny and quite possibly a better shot at life.
“Hey kid…you want to be a cowboy? Don’t.”
John C. Krieg is a retired landscape architect and land planner who formerly practiced in Arizona, California, and Nevada. He is also retired as an International Society of Arboriculture (ISA) certified arborist and currently holds seven active categories of California state contracting licenses.