volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

The Old Cowboy rose before the sun,
when the air was still and cool, the chill of dew fresh on his face. He would
sit quietly in this, his favorite part of the day, what the Indians called coyote
dawn, and watch the eastern sky pale, still spangled with stars.
Soon as the sun crested the horizon, the heat would begin. The Old
Cowboy lighted a readymade, his face briefly exposed in the match’s flame.
His skin was deeply lined, dark as whang leather; his eyes were perpetual
squints and his hat-ridden forehead as white as a fine lady’s neck.
He wouldn’t make a fire this morning, as there was no easy wood or
sagebrush at hand; just jerky and water for him, a handful or two of oats for
his horse.
He brushed off his woolen trousers, slid on his scarred boots, and stood.
He’d know an old cowboy in hell with his hide burned off, just from the way
he walked.
He settled his dusty, black Stetson banded with silver conchos onto his
head. His kind were men who could sit a saddle twenty-four hours straight.
Tough men, hard as mesquite, men with hands coarse and strong that could
nurse a calf back to life, or choke the life out of a rustler.
He talked in low, gentle tones to his roan as he slipped her saddle blanket
on. She frisked a bit, nodded she was ready for the day to begin, stamped
the ground with impatience. He dropped the heavy saddle onto her back and
cinched it tight.
The sun was up. He would eat in the saddle. The bit went in, halter
over her twiddling ears. Then he swung his long leg up and settled onto the
saddle.
Back on the trail again, back where life was simplest and he was
happiest. He reckoned if the good Lord had wanted him to stand still, he
would have made him a tree.
ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY 21