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In search of the Kansas Cowboy

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Contributed by: Kevin Johnson on 12/3/2007

So I had the pleasure of meeting my first Kansas Cowboy last week. A big tall drink of water who went by the name of Alabaster C. Chiggins, the only true cowboy left in these United States. At least that is what he told me.
To find Alabaster I took a series of dirty roads out into the middle of nowhere, to the historic Chiggins' farmstead in the middle of the North West Kansas plains, "smack dab in the middle of this here country of ours, by gosh." Said Alabaster, eyes narrowed at me from under the brim of his ten-gallon cowboy hat, stroking the tips of his Yosemite Sam mustache with his grizzled fingertips. "And don't you question it or I'll feed yer eyes to the lamas, by golly."
And there was not a doubt in my mind that his threat was legit. Alabaster was a lama rancher, and his lamas looked fat and plump, probably from years of feasting on the eyeballs or other appendages of nosy reporters such as myself, who only wanted a glimpse at a true Kansas Cowboy.
"Come with me City Slick," Alabaster said to me, "and I'll show ya the way a true Cowboy goes about his day, by caw!"
And so I went with Alabaster into his shack, a real cowboy living space of old wood that had the broken down look of a true 1800s Kansas homestead. Pictures of Bill and Hillary Clinton hung randomly on the tattered walls; lamas and other wildlife milling about inside
First thing was first, we had a big ol' cowboy's breakfast: 16 raw Lama eggs, a gallon of milk strait from the Lama, 1 pound of raw Lama bacon, and to wash it all down, three cups of coffee grounds and mixed with Lama whisky.
"Does being a real cowboy mean you don't cook your food?" I asked.
"Heck naw," said Alabaster. "Being a real cowboy means you don't pay your utilities, by shucks."
Next we went out to the corral and chased lamas around with a two by four, swinging our wooden clubs wildly and swearing at the top of our lungs like real cowboys, an activity Alabaster called "herding, by diggity."
It was around this time that I started to suspect that Alabaster was not a cowboy at all. Maybe it was the lack of boots, or any covering for that matter, on his feet; maybe it was the shopping cart full of cans and Alabaster's other personal belongings parked near his house, which I suppose was more of a shanty now that I think about it, but something wasn't right. I began to suspect that my Kansas Cowboy was nothing more than a common Nebraska Hobo.
But I wasn't totally sure until a few hours later when the real owner of the lama farm drove out in his new Ford truck and kicked Alabaster in the chest with a mighty thud of his snakeskin boots.
"Gus, I told you to quit chasing my lamas with that two by four, you corn husking swine."
The man in the snakeskin boots told us we had exactly five minutes to get off his property before he came back with a tack hammer and imposed some "Northwest Kansas justice" upon our heads. He got back in his Ford and drove off with a mighty "Yee-Haww" and plenty of gravel in his wake.
I held the wounded Alabaster, or Gus, in my arms and as he looked at me with his sad and now frightened cowboy eyes, he said something to me that I will never forget.
"I think old boy caved my chest in again, by partisan... D'ya think you could give me a lift to the hospital?"

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CONTRIBUTOR INFORMATION

Kevin Johnson

Denver , CO

Kevin Johnson has posted 15 stories and 0 comments since joining on 4/9/2007. Kevin Johnson's average story rating is 5.

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