Daddy of all campfires

While nighthawks whirled in the circling sparks of the ol’ campfire, tuckered broncpeelers sat cross-legged at the edge of the smoke and reminisced about Cheyenne Frontier Days. Hard days and hard nights were no strangers to this circle of stalwart cowboys.

“I heard tell that attendance was down this year.” Panhandle broke the silence. “Pret’ near everthang. Pancake breakfast, the parade, the rodeo, all of it was down.” Panhandle sighed and said, “Hell, even them sportin’ ladies that come up from Denver, them poor gals went home with half-empty purses.”

Sweetwater Slim brushed a scorpion from his dusty chaps and rejoindered, “I blame it on the funnel cakes. Any given population can eat only a finite number o’ them gut bombs. We maxed ever’body out on funnel cakes, an’ them folks from Ohio or Tennessee … ain’t nobody gonna spend good money to come here an’ eat ‘em no more. If anything’s gonna stop capitalism in its tracks, it’s funnel cakes. I rest my case.”

“I could say the same thing about them goddam turkey legs.” This from Little Joe the Wrangler. “My uncle had to mortgage his calf crop to buy one, an’ he said the thing was tough as harness leather. He tol’ me them delicacies is poor reason for turkeys to go ‘round in wheelchairs.”

A desultory mood clouded the campfire circle. When cowboys commence to bitch and moan, things take on a trajectory of their own. It’s just like a spooked herd stampeding to escape some mysterious threat in the dark. One thing follows another.

“I’ll be my last dollar,” Hoolihan sighed, “that Charley Irwin an’ T. Joe Cahill are spinnin’ in their graves cuz o’ what Frontier Days has come to.” Sweaty Stetsons nodded in agreement around the ol’ campfire. Hoolihan plowed on, “Back in the ol’ days, them cowboys came into Cheyenne on them dusty cow trails to ride broncs, not Tilt-o-Whirls an’ Spin-n-Barfs. Time has changed, pards.”

Against the background noise of Cookie cursing at his cauldron of simmering frijoles, Hank from Hanna pulled a slobbery harmonica out of his shirt pocket and played a few bars of “Night Rider’s Lament.”

Hank lamented, “It’s them goldarned night shows. ‘Stead o’ Chris LeDoux, we pay an arm an’ a leg to watch them tattooed hip-hoppers lip synchin’ that crap that passes fer country music these days. Somethin’ ain’t right.”

“The parades is different, too.” Sweetwater Slim offered his two cents. “There’s still floats with cowboys an’ clowns tossin’ candy to the tourist kids like always. But now the Freedom Caucus float comes along afterward, an’ them dudes jump off the float an’ take all the candy back from the kids so they don’t turn into commies. I liked it better in the ol’ days.”

“It’s all about the money nowadays, fellers.” Trail Boss sauntered into the ring of campfire light and exhorted his crew.

Panhandle picked up the train of thought and said, “Yeah. I blame George Soros an’ Bill Gates. Maybe the Tri-Lateral Commission. Somebody’s pullin’ the strings to make Frontier Days all about money.”

Trail Boss retorted, “Naw, it’s the Committee, them bigwigs that run Frontier Days now, politicians ever’ one. They only straddle a horse once a year, but they’s the 800-pound gorilla in Cheyenne politics.” The encircled cowboys looked nonplussed. Trail Boss went on, “They have polls an’ focus groups that tell ‘em what to do so folks’ll come here an’ spend money.” At this, disgusted trail hands stared at their boots.

“Come an’ git it.” Cookie’s gruff voice broke the sour mood. “An’ iff’n ya ask me, we should jes’ stop them tourists at the border, turn ‘em upside down, shake all the money outa their pockets an’ send ‘em home empty-handed.”

“Naw, that’s cruel, folks’d stop comin’ here.” Little Joe said as he rose, plate in hand to get some beans. “We should send ‘em each home with a funnel cake.”