Jimbob

Ernest was a cowboy. He was one of the last authentic members of a nearly extinct American tribe. I met him when I went to visit my old friend Jack and his wife, Jerri, whom I hadn’t seen for more that twenty-five years. Jack had done very well for himself; he had built up a successful medical practice in the Texas panhandle and had now bought himself a ranch. Ernest came with the ranch.

I shook hands with Jack and hugged Jerri. We assured one another we hadn’t changed a bit in the past 25 years, and I greeted their daughter Sandy, marveling over how she had grown up in the 25 years since I’d last seen her chewing on a pacifier. Then Sandy’s cell phoned rang.

She answered with a few words, hung up and said “That’s Eddie. He’s a city boy and can’t manage the latch at the gate, so I‘m going out to meet him. I’ll see you this evening.”

Jack and Jerri proceeded to fill me in on plans for dinner. Sandy would be there with Eddie, Also, Ernest would be there. “He’ll only come to dinner when he can contribute something,” Jack said. “In this case, he’s supplied the main course - a roast from a deer he shot.”

“Actually, said Jerri, "he gave us the whole deer all dressed out, butchered, wrapped and packaged for the freezer. That’s because I picked up some clothes for him the last time I went shopping in Amarillo. It was pretty easy; all he ever wears is Levis and long-sleeved blue cotton shirts. He buys a half-dozen of each whenever he needs clothes - Ernest is no slave to fashion.”

Jack pointed through the back window to a sun-faded mobile home. “See that trailer? That’s his place. He sort of came with the ranch when I bought it.”

“So he works for you?” I asked.

“Just odd jobs. He’s figured a way to be an independent cowboy. I let him use some rough land on the far end of the ranch to run a few cattle. He contracts with some local cattlemen to finish out their animals before they get shipped off to market. Of course, he has to buy feed and vet supplies, then pays me something for the use of the land when he gets his commission on what the cows bring at the sale. Says he averages about $600 a month, but I think he’s exaggerating a little.”

“But he helps out a lot,” said Jerri, “sometimes for money, sometimes just in return for favors - like shopping. He gets around to all the ranches around here, but he hates to go into the cities, and very rarely does.

Ernest came over to the house that evening after taking a while to shower and change. He wasn’t at all like the silent, taciturn old cowpoke I’d been expecting. Instead, he was a tall, slim fellow of about 50, as best I could guess, with a ready smile and hearty handshake for everyone present. When he wasn’t helping Jerri move furniture around to accommodate the dinner guests, he was telling funny stories and expressing interesting perspectives on life.

“Too bad you never got married, Ernest,” she said. “You would have made some woman a good husband and some kids a good father.”

I almost thought I saw Ernest blush under his tanned, leathery skin. “Naw, Jerri, he said, I’m just too fond of doin’ things my way. ’Sides, havin’ kids is pretty much of a crap shoot. Now, you an’ Doc got lucky. You had a smart, beautiful daughter that turned out to be newspaper writer and made you proud.”

“But it don’t always work out that way, he went on. “Friend of mind has a son in prison for dealin’ drugs. Another has a daughter that turned out to be a hooker. They both done their best to raise them kids right. And there was somebody else - a good man who had a son turned out to be a Goddamn faggot.” He went an’ kilt hisself when he found out.”

As silence fell across the room, I thought I could see tears welling up in the tough old cowpoke’s eyes. But he got a grip on himself, smiled and said “Leastways I know them cows I raise ain’t never gonna be nothin’ but cows. They ain’t gonna be doctors or lawyers, but they ain’t gonna be criminals or perverts neither.”

That got a laugh that didn’t die down till Sandy arrived with her friend from the newspaper.

“Hi, everybody,” she said. "This is Edward Harris. He’s from the New York office and he’s here to do a piece on ranch life in West Texas.”


“Just call me Eddie.” the man said with a smile. He was dressed just the way I would have expected a New Yorker would think is typical Texan garb: black Stetson hat, tailored western shirt, Calvin Klein jeans, and pointy-toed, high-heeled cowboy boots. But that was Ok. I took a liking to the fellow right away, and I think everyone else did too, especially Ernest.

Somehow, the West Texas cowboy and the urbane New Yorker clicked. The rest of the evening they swapped stories, told jokes, and playfully mocked each other’s speech in a way that kept everybody laughing.

Around 11:00 Eddie stood up and said “Well, Pardners, I reckon y’all are ’bout ready to get some shut-eye, so I guess I’ll make like a cow flop and hit the trail.”

“Well, my dear fellow” said Ernest, "perhaps you’d like to join me for a nightcap before you go. If you’ll step over to my pent.. uh, tinhouse, perhaps I can find a bottle of bourbon."

“Well , I reckon I don’t care if I do, ol’ buddy," said Eddie. And they left everyone laughing as they walked over to Ernest’s trailer.

“Sandy, I think I really like your new boyfriend.” said Jack. “He may be a Yankee, but he sure is a hoot.”

“Oh Daddy! He’s not my boyfriend; he’s just a colleague. Besides, he’s gay as a picnic basket! Can’t you tell?”

“Why no. Are you sure?”

“Trust me, Dad," she sighed. "He is.”

“Then, what’s he doing having a drink with Ernest? That guy thinks gays are about as lowdown as a human being can get.”

“I dunno, Dad, but I’m not gonna go knock on Ernest’s door to ask.”

Now I was curious enough to ask for a little more information about
Ernest.

“I’ll tell you what I know,” said Jack, “but it isn’t much. His last name’s Hutchins, he was born somewhere around here. His mom died when he was young, so he was raised mostly by his father. His dad’s name was James; he’s buried over by Oak Grove Baptist Church. Ernest goes over there every couple of weeks, rain or shine, and tends the grave."

“So he’s lived around here all his life?” I asked.

“Well, he was in Vietnam with the marines. Then he drove 18 wheelers for a few years. Then when his dad died, he settled down here. He stays pretty busy - does some mechanic work for the local ranchers, helps pull calves when they won’t come out of their mothers. He's pretty much a man for all seasons far as ranch life’s concerned. Even drives cattle trucks to market if he doesn’t have to stay over in any big cities.”

“Yeah, there’s that thing about Ernest and big cities,” Jerri put in. "I asked him once and he just told me that the flesh is weak and it was to easy too get into trouble were nobody knows your name.”

“Yeah,” said Jack, "I know he drinks too much. He doesn’t drink often, but when he does, he drinks a lot, so I don’t expect he’ll be up particularly early in the morning. Every once in a while he’ll tell me he’s gonna go off to get drunk and feel sorry for himself. So he goes off to a favorite place of his down by the creek and stays gone for two or three days.”

"Well," I said, “I guess he’s got his demons to fight, but then who doesn’t?“

“I don’t” Sandy piped up. “and I’m not gonna take on anyone else’s tonight. Aren’t you all tired? let’s clean up and go to bed.”

And so we did. I slept the sleep of the just, interrupted only briefly by the sound of Eddie’s car starting up and pulling away.


The next morning at breakfast, I was having bacon and eggs and catching up on the past 25 years with Jack and Jerri. While I was sipping coffee and trying to think of something meaningful to say about the essence of life and the importance of friendship, Sandy came in, face drained of blood, eyes wide and staring.

“Mom! Dad! We gotta do something. Ernest is gonna kill Eddie!”

Jerri dropped a plate of eggs. Jack spilled coffee on his pants, then said “That can’t be right; how do you know?

“I was outside feeding the dogs when I saw Ernest coming out of the driveway in that old truck of his. I asked him where he was off to so bright and early and he stopped. I walked over, and saw how his eyes were all bloodshot and his hands were shaking. He just looked and me and said 'Miss Sandy, I gotta go kill a Goddamn queer.' Then he drove off. I just stood there and watched him till he pulled onto the main road."

“Did he have a gun?” I asked

“Didn’t see one. Just the usual cowboy stuff - some tools... and I think he had a rope in the front and some garden stuff in the back.“

“Well call Eddie and tell him to get out of that motel as quickly as possible.” Jack said.

She was already on the phone. When she hung up she looked greatly relieved. “ The clerk told me he’d checked out two hours ago. He’d asked for a wake-up call so he could catch an eight o’clock flight. It’s already after nine.”

“A smile burst across Jerri’s face “you don’t know how glad I am to hear that!”

“Yes, we do!” said Jack and Sandy, almost in unison.

After a quick conference, the four of us decided that Ernest was probably messed up, confused, probably not dangerous to us, but in need of our help. So Jack, Sandy and I piled into her car, leaving Jerri at the house to call us if Ernest showed up. Then we set off to find him on the highway.

About halfway to the city, Sandy’s eyes suddenly widened and she shouted “Oh shit! I am a Goddamn Idiot!” as she stomped on the brake and turned the wheel left. The car slewed all over the two-lane highway and stopped crossways over the center line.

I said “Well, under the circumstances, I won’t argue with that statement.”

“Good thing your mom’s not here to hear you cuss like that” said her father.

She ignored us and blurted “I went the wrong way.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jack.

“I remember now when he turned onto the main road, he went right. We were still thinking he went toward the city when he left the house.”

“Hmmm. Nothing much down that direction except the Oak Grove Baptist Church and that section of land where he keeps those cattle he’s feeding,” said Jack. “He’s probably holed up with Jack Daniels at that spot he likes down by the creek.”

“You’re probably right, Dad, but lets check out the church first. It’s right on the way.”


Almost an hour later, we pulled into the cemetery behind the old brick church.The place was well-named; there were oak trees all around the church and they bordered the graveyard, extending all the way to the fence.

We found the stone pretty quickly - plain granite with the name “JAMES HUTCHINS” and the dates. The grave itself had just been cleared of grass and raked clean. A hoe and a rake had been left leaning against the monument.

I looked around and caught a glimmer of the pickup bumper next to a big oak, half concealed by the trees. All I had to do was point, and we started walking. We knew what was up when we could make out the rope hanging from a branch on the other side of the truck, but the full impact didn’t hit till we passed the hood.

I barely heard Jack when he shook his head and muttered “Cowboys just don’t ever cry.”

semtecks

Wow what a twist. And you set it up well too, with the way you explain his homophobia and his friendship with Eddie. I guessed it a couple of paragraphs from the end but it doesn't really matter, the slow reveal approach works quite well for me.

"Gotta kill me a queer." Very good, misleads you but it is fundementally true.

Excellant story.

amusinglackoftalent

Well done, Jimbob. This is good stuff and well written. You got some spelling and punctuation errors in there but you'll get to that I have no doubt. I'd change a small thing in the very beginning:

Ernest was one of the last authentic members of a nearly extinct American tribe. He was a cowboy.

I just think that sounds better... but that's just me. It's danged sure your story and a good one at that. You might consider shopping this one around a bit, Texas Man.

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Chris Miller

I agree. Shop this one around. Your characters are memorable, strong and believable. The story was excellent. I didn't spot any errors, but I was pretty into the tale and not really looking.

Not sure I like the word "tribe" in association with cowboys. Has indian associations. Or maybe that was intentional.

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gohn67

Hey Jimbob,
Good story. I liked it. Nice twist. Well, I hate reading the comments first, but somehow I always end up reading the comments first then reading the story, so I kind of figured out the ending, around where semtecks figured it out. That's not a bad thing, I still enjoyed, despite that. You didn't need to rely on the twist to make this a good read in my opinion, but the twist defintely makes it better. You did a good job of setting it up. I liked the dialogue it was realistic and interesting.

This reminded me of American Beauty, with the Ex-Miltary guy, colonel Frank Fitts.

A few small things

You should go over your dialogue format though. Your use of quotations and lack of quotations at times, really through me off.

Long sentence, that is run on.

Capitol "H"

I do this a lot too, but "here" = "hear"

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Jimbob

Semtecks,
Thanks for reading. glad you liked my cowboy story.

Amusing,
Yeah, I think I'm going to need to redo the beginning of this story. Thanks for the suggestion.

Chris,
I'm definitely going to have to tinker with the beginning. I see what you mean about he use of the word 'tribe". I'm falttered that you liked the story well enough not to notice all the left-open quotes, misspellllings, and punctuation errors. I'll take your suggestion about shopping this one around after I iron aout a few of the kinks and polish it up a bit.

ghon,
Thanks for drawing my attention to the structural glitches in this piece. I was surprised that i'd overlooked so many. I think I've got them all fixed now. At least I hope so.

Thanks to everyone for your kind remarks.

Jimbob

Starik

JimBob,

Durned good story you wrote there.

I went 'n wrote y'all a PM.

eggo

Hey Jimbob,

I smelt the twist, but I usually catch these things early on.
It was well written and kept my interest staight through.

a tech point,

Meat from a deer is venison. When someone askes you what you ate, you say " steak" not " cow".Similarly with deer.

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Jimbob

Hi Eggo,
I know deer meat is called venison, but I don't see why that's relevant.
After all, we could say "steak from a cow he raised" without using the word
"beef." i jus twanted to show the relationship between the man and the animal that had died to provide the main course.

Jimbob

eggo

Hey Jimbob,

Maybe it's just me, I hear roast, I think beef. I have never heard it called "roast from a deer". I've heard of venison roast, the same as pork roast. I understood the relationship and applaud the effort. It just sounded a little awkward to me. Coming from Texas you probably know better than me.

Cheers

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