My Life as a Cowboy Cowpie

by Bill Myers

  As we headed toward Chad’s cabin I began to chuckle. “This is going to be great,” I said, “just great.”

  Opera agreed. I could tell he was really getting into it by the way he started practicing shaking the maracas.

  We arrived under Chad’s window. “All right,” I whispered as I set the sack on the ground behind me and turned to the window. “All I have to do is push up the window like so . . .” It gave a quiet squeak, then opened easily.

  “Wally,” Opera whispered. He was really going to town with shaking those maracas.

  “Now hand me the sack.”

  “Wally?”

  “You’re doing fine,” I whispered. “Just keep shaking those maracas and—”

  “Wally?”

  “What?” I turned toward him.

  “I’m not shaking any maracas.”

  “What?”

  He motioned to the maracas that he held motionless in his hands.

  “Well, if you’re not making the sound, then . . .”

  He pointed to the sack between us. I frowned and picked it up, opening it for a look inside. The snakes were wide awake now, and by the look of things they weren’t terribly happy. You could tell by the way they writhed, slithered, and rattled.

  “AND RATTLED?!”

  That’s right, the little critters were anything but pleased . . . and they were anything but garter snakes!

  I gave the world’s second biggest scream (the first is over on page 47) and set off to break the land speed record. Unfortunately, I forgot one minor little detail.

  “Wally, Wally!” Opera shouted.

  “What, what?” I yelled.

  “The bag! The bag!”

  “What about it?”

  “Drop it!”

  (Hey, a guy can’t remember everything.) As I glanced at it, I saw its insides were churning like a blender gone berserk. And being the type who always listens to his friends, I took Opera’s advice. I threw down the bag and ran like the wind. It wasn’t until we got back into our bunkhouse and locked the door that I decided to work a little something else into my scream-and-flee routine.

  A little something else like, oh, I don’t know . . .

  “Ahhh . . .”

  K-Thud

  passing out.

  “Wally . . . Wally, wake up.” Opera kept shaking and yelling at me. “Wally!?”

  But it did no good. I wasn’t exactly dead, but I wouldn’t exactly be waking up for a while, either.

  Chapter 4

  Friend or Foe?

  When I finally decided to regain consciousness it was somewhere around 3:30 in the morning.

  If you’d have guessed I was a little upset about nearly being bitten by the rattlesnakes, you would have guessed wrong. I wasn’t a little upset, I was a lot upset. But instead of admitting that I was really the one to blame and that it was really my fault for seeking revenge, I did what I always do when I want to forget my troubles. I reached down and pulled out Ol’ Betsy. Yes sir, nothing beats a little superhero story when you’re trying to relax and unwind (not to mention avoid the blame) . . .

  When we last left Chester C. Chess-club he was speeding down the road in his Nerd-Mobile to find the unbearably hip and happening huckster (insert bad guy music here ...).

  Ta-Da-DAAAAA ...

  Thank you. ... The unbearably hip and happening huckster: 2-Kool4 U!

  Ta-Da-DAAAAA ...

  Uh, thank you, we heard it the first time.

  “I know, but I just got some brand-new notes that I wanted to try. What do you think?”

  Wait a minute, you’re not supposed to talk, you’re just the music guy.

  “I know, but after eighteen books I ought to be able to say something.”

  Sorry, I do the talking, you just do the music.

  “Why do you get all the fun?”

  ’Cause they’re my stories.

  “You don’t have to get all huffy about it.”

  I’m not getting——

  “If you ask me, your head’s been getting pretty big lately.”

  Please, would you just——

  “And I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

  Look, we’re running out of pages here. I’ve got to get back to my story——

  K-Rash, K-Bang, K-Pow tinkle, tinkle, tinkle ...

  Oh, brother, now it’s Sound Effects Guy. And what do you want?

  “I just want to (K-Bamb, K-Boom) agree with Music Guy here. You really are (K-Bounce, K-Bounce, K-Bounce) getting kinda bossy lately.”

  Please, guys, can we get back to my story?

  “Oh, so now it’s (K-Pop) your story.”

  “You see, that’s exactly what we’re (Ta-Da-Daaaaa) talking about.”

  “All right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re right, it’s our story. But can we discuss it later? Please?

  “Well, o(K-Bing)kay.”

  “But don’t forget.”

  I won’t, I promise. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, no one’s sure why or how 2-Kool first got too cool. Some say it was from riding around in his brother’s car with those big bass speakers pounding away. Others say it came when his baby-sitter kept popping Grease into their VCR and watching it over and over again. Then there’s the ever-popular theory that it was simply an allergic reaction to too many Teletubbies reruns.

  Whatever the reason, 2-Kool became too cool to be safe. And now he is trying to take over the world with his horrendous hipness by polluting the drinking water.

  But how is it possible? How could one villain be contaminating all of the world’s water supply? How could one bad guy, no matter how bad, reach every well and reservoir in the world? Unless ...

  Great garbanzo beans! In a flash of incurable intellectual intelligence, Chester C. has it figured out. 2-Kool isn’t contaminating the water by dumping chemicals into it. No, of course not. He’s changing the subatomic makeup of H

  (I’m sure most of you knew that, but I had to explain it for the younger readers.)

  Which can only mean ...

  Ta-Ta-Taaaaa ...

  What’s that?

  “Realization music.”

  Thanks, don’t need it. Which can only mean our villainous villain is hiding out in the depths of the Earth. Then, with even more expert calculations, our hero——

  Ta-Ta—

  Don’t need that, either.

  “Sorry.”

  Then, witheven more expert calculations (by the way, I’m typing this smaller and closer together so no music or sound effects can be squeezed in), our hero calculates the exact location.

  Suddenly, and with complete lack of coordination (not to mention driving skills), Chester C. spins his Nerd-Mobile around (three or four more times than necessary),while, of course, wiping out one stop sign, two mailboxes, and don’t even ask about that poor little rabbit trying to cross the road (though the Nerd-Mobile suddenly looks a lot better with its new live-animal hood ornament).

  Soon he is heading toward the largest cavern in the country. Carl’s-REALLY-Bad Cavern!

  Who knows what creepy concoctions the criminally cool kid can cook up?

  Who knows what kind of crazy caper the creepy culprit can create?

  Who knows how many more c words I can come up with?

  (Who cares?)

  And what about the music and sound effects guys? Are they going to keep coming back and interrupting the story?

  “Maybe.”

  “And (K-Blewy), maybe not.”

  Oh, brother. Then, suddenly, out of the blue——

  Ol’ Betsy’s screen went blank.

  What on Earth? I pressed the power button and nothing happened.

  I pressed it again.

  Repeat in the nothing department. It was only then that I realized the battery was dead.

  Great, I thought, just great. I spend all that time arguing with the music and sound guys and now I have no power left for the story. It looked like I’d have to do a little battery recharging first. And, speaking of recharging,
as I closed Ol’ Betsy’s screen, I thought it might not be a bad idea to get a little rest myself. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.

  Little did I realize that all the rest in the world wouldn’t prepare me for what was about to happen. . . .

  * * * * *

  “All right, Buckaroos, listen up.”

  It was early morning, and once again Cowboy Roy was pacing back and forth in front of us like an army drill sergeant. You’d never know this was the same man who had been so frightened of Satan Breath yesterday. And, since we all felt like living another day or so, none of us felt a need to mention it to him.

  “Parents’ Day is in two days.” He leaned over his horse and spit on the ground. “And as is our custom, we’ll be putting on a little rodeo for them.”

  “Little rodeo, sir?” Chad Diamond asked in a too-chipper-for-the-morning voice.

  “That’s right,” Cowboy Roy said. “Now, it’s important that ya make a good impression on them so they see what fine, outstanding young men and women each of ya has become.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Was Cowboy Roy actually paying us a compliment?

  “Of course, you and me know that’s all hogwash, but as long as they think it, they’ll dish out the money for ya to come again next year.”

  So much for compliments.

  “Now, I’ve assigned each of ya an event. For some of ya it will be calf roping, for others barrel racing or bronco riding—just like a real, honest-to-goodness rodeo. Any questions?”

  “Yes, sir,” Opera said. “I was just wondering—”

  “Good,” Cowboy Roy cut him off. “Then saddle up and drag yer sorry selves over to the arena. We’ll be starting in thirty minutes.”

  Twenty-nine and a half minutes later, when I was still trying to saddle up Ol’ Bag a Bones, Chad Diamond came trotting up to me on his horse while pulling another behind him. “Hey, Wally.”

  “What do you want?” I tried to sound mean and tough. And I might have pulled it off, if—

  “O-Oaf!”

  K-plop

  I wasn’t suddenly spread-eagle on the ground with the saddle on top of me. The best I could figure Ol’ Bag a Bones was going for a record in the number of times she could sidestep me as I tried to throw the saddle on her.

  Chad answered, “I just want to say I’m sorry ’bout that bull thing yesterday.”

  I looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, when I leaped off the gate. I’m sorry, my hand accidentally caught the latch and I unlocked the pen.”

  “You’re telling me it was an accident?”

  Chad nodded, obviously embarrassed. “It was a stupid accident and I’m really sorry.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Had I really misjudged him? Had it really been an accident? Had I nearly filled his room with live rattlers for no reason at all? Talk about feeling stupid. Here I was trying to get revenge when it had been nothing but a mistake all along.

  “Hey,” I said, crawling out from under the saddle. “Don’t worry about it. I do that sort of stuff all the time.”

  “You do?”

  “Oh yeah, but it usually involves dinosaur skeletons falling down or crash landing space shuttles and stuff.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yeah,” I said, suddenly beginning to feel that we might actually have something in common.

  “Well, just to let you know I’m sorry, I saddled up this horse for you. Cowboy Roy said he’s a lot easier to ride and not nearly as stubborn as Ol’ Bag a Bones.” He handed the reins down to me.

  “You did that for me?” I asked.

  “Sure, just to say I hope there’re no hard feelings.”

  “Well, no, of course not.” I reached down to the other saddle on the ground, but Chad was already off his horse and moving to pick it up.

  “Here, let me get that,” he said.

  “No, that’s—”

  “No, really, it’s the least I can do.”

  I watched as Chad heaved the saddle up into his arms and headed for the tack room to put it away. I guess I really was wrong about the guy. I turned to my new horse, put my foot in the stirrup, and after ten or fifteen tries finally managed to get up into the saddle.

  Chad was right, he was a great horse. Strong. Obedient. We seemed to hit it off right away.

  “Hey, Chad,” I called as he came back out of the tack room. “What’s his name?”

  “His?” Chad asked as he mounted his own horse and eased into the saddle.

  “Yeah.”

  “Undertaker.”

  I frowned. “Undertaker? Why do they call him that?”

  Chad reached over toward my horse’s flank. “ ’Cause everybody who rides him eventually sees the undertaker.”

  “Yeah, right,” I chuckled. “Actually, this horse is as gentle as—”

  “YEE-HAAA!”

  SLAP

  “AUGHHHHHHHhhhhhh . . .”

  The “YEE-HAAA!”—if you hadn’t already guessed—was Chad suddenly yelling at my horse.

  The SLAP was Chad suddenly slapping my horse.

  And the “AUGHHHHHHHhhhhhh . . .” was me letting loose the world’s biggest scream (even bigger than page 34), and clinging to Undertaker for dear life . . . as he began leaping and bucking.

  Oh, and there was one other sound amid all the yelling and slapping and screaming . . .

  The sound of Chad Diamond laughing his head off.

  Chapter 5

  An I for an Eye

  So there we were, running, jumping, leaping, and

  BUCK “Whoa!”

  BUCK “Whahhhhh!”

  BUCK “EEEEEEEEEE!”

  Well, actually, Undertaker was doing most of the running, jumping, and leaping. I was too busy yelling and hanging on for my life. Then, when we got tired of those fun and games, we tried something entirely different. Something that sounded an awful lot like:

  “AUGHHHHHHH. . .”

  (that’s me flying through the air)

  followed by

  “AUGhhhhhhhh . . .”

  (that’s me coming back down again)

  And what gymnastic routine would be complete without the grand finale—a good healthy and hearty:

  K-SPLAT

  Now, the more attentive reader will notice this is identical to the sound effect on page 2 when I landed in the world’s biggest manure pile. And there is a very simple explanation:

  IT IS THE SAME MANURE PILE! (Sorry, didn’t mean to yell.)

  But like I always say, if something is worth doing, it’s worth doing well. This time I dove in so deep that I couldn’t even see daylight. Then, after a couple of eternities, I began to hear, ever so faintly:

  “Wawee . . . ?”

  What was that?

  “Wawee . . . Waa ooo okaa?”

  Was someone trying to communicate with me?

  “Wawee . . .”

  But why were they talking in a strange, foreign language?

  “Wawee, aanwher mee.”

  Maybe they were aliens from another planet. Or another dimension. Or—

  “Wawee . . .”

  And then I felt it . . . a hand grabbing my leg and trying to pull me out. After several attempts, I finally popped out of the pile like a cork from a bottle. I tell you, it was great to finally see daylight again. (And the part about being able to breathe wasn’t too bad, either.)

  “Wawee . . .”

  I turned and to my surprise saw that it was Wall Street who had saved me.

  “Waa ooo okaa?” she asked.

  I frowned, trying to understand.

  “Wawee . . . waa ooo okaa?”

  Finally, she pointed to my ears and motioned for me to clean them out. Not a bad idea. And, after removing two or three pounds of . . . well, you know . . . from each ear, I was able to hear.

  “Oh, Wally,” she practically sobbed, “I was so scared. Are you okay?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “I had no idea,” she cont
inued. “When I helped Chad saddle up Undertaker for you, Ididn’t expect—”

  “You helped Chad?” I asked in astonishment.

  “Well, yes. We wanted to give you a horse with a bit more spunk.”

  “You were in with him on this?”

  “Yes,” she repeated. “But it wasn’t supposed to end like this.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I said. “You actually helped him?”

  She reached out to me. “Wally—”

  But I shook her off. Then I turned and started to hobble away.

  She was right at my side. “Wally, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  She blinked in surprise. “What?”

  I said nothing, letting my words sink in.

  “You don’t . . .” She swallowed. “Wally, you don’t think . . .” She tried a third time. “You don’t think we planned for this to happen?”

  I turned to her and in my lowest, coolest voice said, “You tell me.”

  It had just the effect I wanted, causing her mouth to drop open to her knees. Without a word, I turned and continued hobbling off.

  She called after me. “Wally? Wally?!”

  But I kept right on hobbling. I didn’t know what was going on, but I was going to show her. And I was going to show that precious Chad Diamond of hers, too.

  I was going to show everyone.

  * * * * *

  By the time I got to the arena, Cowboy Roy was already passing out the assignments. No surprises, really. The real athletic guys like Chad got calf roping—a cool thing where they gallop up to a calf on their horse, rope it, then jump down to tie up its legs in the shortest amount of time. Luckily, I wasn’t on that list . . . because even though I’d break all the records for the shortest amount of time, I’d be the one who got my legs tied up.

  Next came broncobusting, where you ride a bucking horse. And, despite all of my experience, Cowboy Roy didn’t put me with that group, either. (Proof there’s a loving God in heaven.)

  After that came barrel racing. Wall Street and some others got that. I have to admit I kinda wanted it, too, since I knew even I could beat a barrel in a race. It wasn’t until I learned that it involved racing horses around the barrels that I was glad my name wasn’t called.