The Brave Cowboy

by Edward Abbey

  Tulsa, Okla. 7

  HINTON STOPPED FOR THE RED LIGHT AND WATCHED the suburban traffic roll by. Sweat dripped down from his ribs; the air was hot in the cab when the truck was not in motion, despite the buzzing electric fan mounted on the dashboard. Around him the traffic clashed and roared, the smell of hot tar, rubber, oil and metal permeated the air and the blue smoke from the cars and the black smoke from the diesel trucks mounted toward the sky. He watched the women crossing the street—middleaged domesticated cows, long-legged schoolgirls, fat pigs from the reservations—and found nothing worthy of his attention. He puffed nervously and irritably on a cigarette, letting the ashes fall on his T-shirt.

  The light changed from red to yellow, from yellow to green: Hinton stepped on the throttle, engaged the clutch and guided his great rumbling truck forward into the glare and haze of the afternoon.

  8

  “MY GOD,” BONDI SAID SOFTLY. HE STOOD UP, staring at Burns. “You really are here.” He reached out and put a hand on the cowboy’s shoulder, and squeezed a little on the tangible skin and bone. “In the flesh—or what there is of it.” He began to smile. “You’re as skinny as ever—and not a bit prettier.”

  “How kola,” Burns said, grinning. “What’d you expect?—a goddamned ghost?”

  “No… yes… I’m not sure.” Bondi paused, staring happily at his friend. “I don’t know—but I was never so glad to see anyone in my life. Whatever you are.”

  “Well, I’m the same old Burns.” The cowboy returned the scrutiny: “You look pretty good—kinda sleek, like you been in high grass for a while.”

  “Me? Yes, I guess so…” Bondi blinked his eyes. “This is a comfortable little jail. I’m so happy here.”

  “We’ll leave tonight,” Burns said, still grinning.

  “Sure, we’ll break out.” Bondi hesitated, staring helplessly at the familiar, homely face of the cowboy. “Well, damnit—shake hands.” They shook. “Now sit down. Make yourself at home.”

  The Reverend Hoskins, who had been watching them, moved over on the bench. “Make yourselves comfortable, boys.”

  “Thank you, tovarish,” Bondi said. He offered a seat to Burns. “Sit down, Jack.”

  “I’ve been sittin too long already,” Burns said, “but I guess a little more won’t hurt me.” He sat down and Bondi sat beside him.

  “Now,” Bondi said, “start talking. Where’ve you been for the last year or so? What’ve you been up to? And how’d you get in here?”

  Burns grinned and rubbed the back of his neck. “That was easy enough,” he said. “No trouble to that.”

  “You look like you were in a fight.”

  “I guess I was. I guess you might call it that. I don’t recollect too well.”

  “Wonderful,” Bondi said irrationally, as if the other had announced some personal triumph. He could not keep his eyes off Burns’ face. “Holy Mary, you’re really here.”

  Burns looked around at their cage of bars. “No doubt about that.” He pushed back his trampled black hat. “No sir.”

  “Well, tell me about yourself. Everything—what you’ve been doing, where you’ve been, what you’re thinking these days.”

  The cowboy smiled amiably, looking at Bondi. “Not much to tell, Paul. Specially on that last item. Whenever I get in jail I only think about one thing.”

  “Getting out?”

  “That’s right?”

  “You’ll never be a philosopher,” Bond! said. “Not at that rate. Only a philosopher can transcend these bars and walls without getting off his actual entity. Or opening his eyes.” Even in the surprise and delight of this meeting Bondi was conscious of a third party present, the objective monitor in his brain surveying and appraising the appearance, speech and reactions of his old friend with a certain critical detachment. He seems a little slow, the monitor observed, a trifle dulled by too much wind and sun and animal company—as if not yet fully emerged from the wild wolfs dream of rock and black shadow. The drugged absorption in the natural world.

  “Maybe I’ll never be a philosopher,” Burns agreed. And then he added: “I can only think of one thing worse—you’ll always be one.”

  Bondi laughed. “I’ll fool you yet, tovarish: I like that prophecy. I’m flattered.” What was I thinking? he said to himself; a kind of wild glaze on his mind? I should know better. Look at those eyes of his—clear and piercing as jets of light. Undimmed by print, the lucky devil.

  “You like it?” Burns said. He rubbed his chin, smiling a little. “Well, it takes a mighty wise man to be flattered by insults. I’m beat.” He grinned at Bondi. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doin in here?

  “It was all a mistake. A silly misunderstanding.” Bondi squeezed his nose carefully and looked at the floor. “Let’s talk about my case later. It’s a sad one. I want to hear about yours. You got in a fight, you said. Was it a good fight?”

  “No,” Burns said; “I lost.”

  “You look it, all right. But what brought you to Duke City, anyway? I thought you were up in Montana or Wyoming; weren’t you going to pan for gold along the Yampa?”

  “Never got that far. Never got out of New Mexico. I been herdin sheep for the last six months. Just foolin around before then. Wastin my time.”

  “You were herding sheep?” Bondi looked more incredulous than he felt. “Were you sick or something?”

  “Well, I guess I was. I was sick of starvin to death. Fell in love with a no-good horse, too—a crazy little mare called Whisky.” Burns felt his shirtpockets. He grinned. “Also, I thought it might be a good idea to get back in touch with civilization. A sheep camp is a good place for that.” Again he felt through his pockets. “You got any smokes, Paul?”

  “No, I haven’t. But I can get you the materials, maybe.” Bondi nudged the Reverend Hoskins. The dark worn face turned toward him. “Reverend, if you’ll give my friend here the makings of a cigarette I’ll give you my supper coffee.”

  Hoskins’ face wrinkled into a painful smile.

  “All of it,” Bondi said.

  The smile broadened. The Reverend Hoskins had a mouthful of teeth as corroded and awry as the tombstones in an old graveyard. “Well, now, Mister Bondi,” he said, “I thought you was a Christian but that ain’t no very Christian deal you offers me.”

  ’That’s true,” Bondi admitted.

  “Anyways I don’t smoke,” Hoskins said, “I don’t believe in it. It’s sinful.”

  “You were smoking this morning.”

  “I was a-backslidin this mornin,” Hoskins said; “I’m mendin my ways this afternoon.” He looked at the cowboy. “You look like a good man to me,” he said. He unbuttoned his greasy coat, pulled a sack of Bull durham from a vest pocket. “Take this, young man, and enjoy yourself. You look like an honest man to me.”

  “Much obliged,” said Burns, taking the tobacco. “Got any papers?” The sack of tobacco was nearly empty.

  “No sir, that I haven’t.” Hoskins explored his innumerable pockets. “Yes sir, I got this.” He drew out a ragged sheet of thin tissue, the wrapping off a roll of toilet paper. “I got this.”

  “I sure do thank you,” said Burns. He folded the paper, tore off a rectangular section and began making himself a cigarette.

  “Then you came to town to see me off to Leavenworth?” Bondi asked, turning back to the cowboy. “A lot of trouble for little pleasure, I think.”

  Burns completed his cigarette and put it in his mouth. “Not exactly, Paul.” He looked at Hoskins. “Got a match too?”

  Hoskins stirred heavily, his old blue serge whispering. “Match? Well, maybe I do. Now just maybe I do. I won’t say for sure, mind, but just maybe. Let’s see here…” Searching again, every hidden pocket. “Maybe now…”

  “Not exactly?”

  “Not to see you off,” Burns said. “To get you outa here.”

  “Out of here?”

  “Might be,” Hoskins said, still searching, “just might be now.”

  “Yes,�
�� said the cowboy. “I thought you might need some help. I know a hundred good hidin places.”

  Bondi finally understood. Liberation, he thought, and smiled. As easy as that. Jack’s been to too many Westerns. Too much Zane Grey. “Maybe you don’t fully understand why I’m here,” he said.

  “I think I do,” Burns said. “But you can’t stay here.” He looked closely at Bondi, perceptibly anxious. “You want to get outa here, don’t you?”

  “Here you are, young man.” Hoskins proffered one match. “I knowed I had one somewheres.”

  “Thanks,” Burns said; he struck the match on his teeth and lit his cigarette. “You can’t stay in a place like this,” he said to Bondi; “you’d go loco.”

  Stark naked loco, Bondi thought, grinning internally. Maybe I’ve already sprung my gyroscope. “Well, I won’t be here very long;,” he said, knowing this the answer Burns did not want. “They’ll take me out of here soon enough.”

  “Wait a minute.” Burns hesitated, glancing around: no one was watching them. “Look,” he said, drawing one pantleg up over his boot top. “Look in the boot.”

  Bondi looked and saw the tang and heel of a file gleaming dully against the cowboy’s pale hairy shank. “How did you get that in here?”

  “Never searched me.” Burns lowered his pantleg. “I’ve got another one in the other boot.”

  “Then you’re not planning to stay for a while?”

  “We’re gettin outa here tonight.”

  “This is a serious business, huh?”

  “Sure it is. That’s why I brought the files.”

  Bondi considered. Everything was against it, of course, but for a moment he surrendered to fantasy and temptation; to break free, hide in the hills, riding by night… He could not conceal from himself his delight in the idea of outlawry—the guns and romance. “You amaze me, old man.” he said; “and I can see now that you’re more or less serious about this… practical joke. But after all—I came here voluntarily. What would I prove by escaping a self-imposed sentence?” He smiled wearily. “We martyrs can only choose once.”

  Burns puffed on his cigarette and stared at the floor.

  “The whole thing is crazy,” Bondi said. “Suppose we break out of this place? What then? I’ll be an outlaw for life. What about my academic career?”

  “How’s it comin along in jail?” Burns asked.

  Bondi smiled and scratched his scalp. “Well… you can see. I had to make a choice. It was either prison or graduate school.” He rubbed his eyes; the slightest excitement seemed to aggravate the irritation. “And what about my family? I’ve got a wife and a kid. I’m a man with responsibilities. I believe you’re crazy, old comrade, coming here with a proposition like that.”

  Burns stared at the floor. “You can’t stay in jail for two years,” he said; “you’ll go crazy.”

  “You’re already crazy.”

  “You won’t be able to take it.”

  Bondi laughed. “But good lord, Jack—it is two years, not a lifetime. If I were in for life your idea would make some sense. But surely two years in prison is better than a whole lifetime as a hunted man.”

  “Not for me,” Burns said. “Anyhow, it won’t be like that.”

  “You’ve been brooding over lonely campfires too long, my good friend.”

  Burns smoked his cigarette down to the last pinch of tobacco. “You can’t stay two years in jail,” he said; “it’ll kill you.”

  “It might at that. I was thinking the same thing this morning.”

  “And even if you could last out the two years—what then? What’ll happen to you then? You’ll just get in some kinda trouble all over again. You’re that breed.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Prob’ly. I can see you refusin to pay your income tax because you don’t like the way the Government spends your money, or somethin like that.” Burns field-stripped the fragmentary butt of his cigarette, dumping the remains into his shirtpocket. “And two years from now, if the big war ain’t started yet, things will be a lot tougher than they are now. You might have to wear some kinda uniform by then.”

  Bondi could not help smiling. “You’re so damned eager to get me out of jail because you want me to become an outlaw like you. But I’m not that kind of animal. I have a great deal of respect for law and order and decorum. When I’m sentenced to prison I believe in serving out my term in an obedient, conscientious manner. I think it’s only the proper and decent thing to do. And now you come to town, insinuate yourself somehow into the county jail, and begin tempting me with your romantic, outlandish, impossible, nineteenth-century notions. Frankly, Jack, I’m a little shocked.”

  It was the cowboy’s turn to smile. “Hell, Paul, I’ve gone to a lotta trouble on your account. I came here to rescue you and by God I’m gonna do it.”

  “But I don’t want to be rescued.”

  “I’m gonna rescue you whether you want it or not.”

  Bondi sighed and put an arm around the cowboy’s shoulders. “Why don’t you sing us a song? Write any new songs lately?”

  “Sure,” said Burns; “I got one called ‘Restless Feet Must Roam.’ And one I call ‘Song of the Timberline.’ But I ain’t got my guitar with me.” He tugged at the bristles on his chin. “And I sure don’t feel like singin anyway. I can’t understand what’s the matter with you.”

  “With me! You’re the one that’s all balled up. You outrage my common sense. And what about my principles?”

  “You proved your point by comin to jail,” Burns said. “The idea now is to break out before they break you.”

  “They won’t break me. I’ve got a nimble and pliant will, and the powers of a chameleon. I’ll conform for a year, or two years if necessary, and when I get out I’ll be a wiser man. Maybe a- sadder man. Possibly bitter, too—I hope not.”

  “You didn’t look very cheerful when I came in,” Burns said.

  Bondi rubbed his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t. It’s the Russian thistle that’s breaking my spirit now. One of the reasons I’m so eager to go to prison: I’m anxious to get out of New Mexico.”

  “Come with me,” said Burns; “we’ll go high up in the Rockies—maybe the Shoshone Forest in Wyoming. I know where there’s a cabin, a good tight windproof cabin, at the foot of a glacier. In winter it’s snowbound—no one can get within twenty miles of it. We’ll lay in a good supply of venison and elk and pine logs and just sit tight while the snow falls. I’ll write songs and you can work on your treatise on whatever you’re workin on now.”

  “A new theory of value,” Bondi said; “a general theory of good and evil, beauty and ugliness, progress and regress.”

  “And Jerry can paint her pictures,” Burns went on. “And Seth—we’ll educate him, the three of us. We’ll learn him to read and write, I suppose, and better things too—how to track deer, how to fish through ice, how to trap the silver fox, how to make things, useful things like bows, arrows, snowshoes, bullets.”

  “Is he your son or mine? I want him to be a classical scholar.”

  “All right,” Burns said; “you can joke about it but I know you’re interested,. I can see a peculiar light in your eyes. You’re thinkin how much you’d like that kinda life yourself.”

  “There is a certain primitive attraction in it,” Bondi said, “but what about the future? Are we to spend the rest of our lives shooting animals, chewing skins, hiding out from game wardens and county sheriffs?”

  “Look,” Burns said, “I don’t understand why this has to get so consarned complicated. I read in the paper you were in jail so I came to town to get you out. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Keep talking: you may convert me yet. I’m still mildly interested. But remember my wife and kid and my professional standing.”

  The cowboy fidgeted with his bands. “How can I talk with you when I don’t have a cigarette to roll or a guitar to pick on or even a stick to doodle in the sand with? This ain’t no place for humans.”

  “I re
member thinking exactly the same thing this morning.”

  “And when do we eat? I’m mighty hungry. No supper last night, not much of a breakfast this mornin. How about some dinner?”

  “You’re about an hour late, compañero”

  “It don’t seem right. They lock a man up for practically nothin and then starve him to boot.”

  “You’ve got a legitimate complaint.”

  Burns lowered his voice. “We gotta get outa here, Paul. This place is frazzlin my nerves. We’ll file our way out tonight; what do you say?”

  “Why go to so much trouble?” Bondi said. “What are you in for—drunk and disorderly conduct? They’ll probably let you out in the morning.”

  “It ain’t so simple as that. They’re holdin me for investigation, too,” Burns said, and he grinned like a schoolboy. “The FBI is gonna investigate me; they think maybe I’m a draftdodger like you.”

  “Where were you in September, 1948?”

  “By God, you sound just like that bookin officer.”

  “But were you in the States then?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I think I was down in old Mexico.”

  ’Then you never registered either?”

  “Not me; and even if I’d a-knowed about it at the time I still wouldn’t of done it—the Government’s never gonna brand a number on me again. Only I had sense enough to keep quiet and not write letters to my draft board.”

  “But now you’re caught.”

  “That’s what they think,” Burns said.

  “And you’ll go to prison just like me.”

  “You know me better than that, Paul.”

  Bondi blew his nose on a piece of toilet paper and blinked his watery eyes. “Sometimes I think we’re both crazy. We don’t seem to realize that it’s no laughing matter to pull tail feathers out of the American eagle. How’d you get away with it for so long? Didn’t your old draft board ever write to you about it?”

  “They didn’t know where to look for me,” Burns answered. “I ain’t had a steady mailin address for nearly four years, not since I got outa the Army.” He rubbed his knees. “Say, my legs are gettin cold.”