The Old Cowboy

The old cowboy slowly saddled his horse and rode down the dirt road past the fields where a few head of cattle were taking advantage of the cool morning to graze the grass.  There had been a time when the cattle had belonged to the old cowboy, but now he just let his neighbor pay him for the grazing rights.  When asked about it, the old cowboy used his age as an excuse, but he could admit to himself that the real reason was that since his wife had passed away, he no longer had the heart to work his own cattle.

Slowly, the old cowboy rode down the dusty two rut track that led to town.  As he passed his neighbor, he saw that the family, dressed in their best, was getting into their buckboard, obviously on their way to Sunday services in the town.

“Morning John!  If you’re heading to church, you’re welcome to ride in with us,” called his neighbor.

“Thank you, but I have things to do,” he replied and let the horse make his own way down the trail to town.

The man helped his wife step up into the buckboard.  “I wish we could get Old John to come back to the church.  I hate to think about him living all alone with no company.”

“That man hasn’t done anything but drink whiskey since Martha died.  She was the only one to keep that man in line, but now that she’s gone there is no hope for the man—might as well try to make a pet out of a coyote.”

The old man continued on his way to town, passing two other families on their way to church.  He had been a regular churchgoer when his wife was alive, but since her passing, he just didn’t see any reason to continue attending.  Besides, he never really felt lonely because he was always surrounded by his memories. 

As his horse made his way through the small settlement, John nodded to the parson who was stepping off the boardwalk that ran in front of the small collection of shops that created the center of town.

“We haven’t seen you in quite a while, John.  Will you be joining us today?

“Sorry Parson, but I have somewhere to be today.”

“You know Martha would want you to come to church.  Why don’t you come in and we can pray together?”

“My wife always got a great comfort in going to church, and I wanted her to be happy.  She’s gone now and while I appreciate your concern, Parson, I’m not going to find her in your church.”

“If you change your mind, John, you know you will always be welcome.”

The old cowboy tipped his hat and silently rode on through the town.  He didn’t look their way but felt certain that there were people gathered around the small clapboard church, who were watching him, disapproving of his actions.  He knew that he was the subject of gossip in the small town, but truthfully, he probably cared more about the opinion of his horse than that of his neighbors.  

Leaving town, he headed west into the open prairie, moving at a slow walk, for there was no hurry.  He watched a lone turkey buzzard circling in the sky, looking for something to eat.  He watched the last few leaves in the scrub oak move with the afternoon wind.  He stopped at the solitary stream and let his horse water and nibble on the green grass along the bank.  While the horse refreshed himself, the old cowboy drank from his canteen and ate the cornbread and bacon he had carefully packed into his saddle bags.

As the sun descended, casting hues of amber and gold across the vast expanse of the western sky, the aging cowboy rode slowly across the rugged terrain.  His weathered face, etched with lines of experience and wisdom, reflected the hardships of a life spent under the relentless sun and endless horizons of the open range.

Leather creaked softly with each movement of his weary mount, the faithful companion who had borne him through countless trails and trials and who was probably the last living creature on earth that the old cowboy cared about.  The rhythmic, slow clip-clop of hooves echoed against the backdrop of fading daylight, marking the passage of time as the cowboy journeyed onward.

With each passing mile, memories flickered like distant stars in the twilight sky.  He recalled the days of his youth, the days when he thought the task was impossible.  He remembered the miracle of Martha agreeing to be his wife and the hard years of building their ranch together.  And he remembered the nights when she laid her head on his shoulder while they slept.  But now, as the years waned and shadows lengthened, he only found solace in the quietude of the open range, where the echoes of the past mingled with the whispers of the wind.

Finally, he reached the spot he had spent the day traveling to, arriving just as the sun was low in the sky in front of him.  Dismounting, he tied the reins to a nearby salt cedar, though he was sure his tired horse was not interested in leaving him.

As the old cowboy removed his hat, he dropped to his knees in prayer.

“Hello, Lord.  It’s me again.  Are you taking care of my girl?”