Dead Battery

THE WEST CAMP COWBOYS

            Louis and Ron were camp cowboys separated by 30 years of age, but had equal reputations as insatiable hunters.  Word was, they’d shoot anything from dove to quail to ducks to rabbits to coyotes to hogs to deer to bear to turkey—even sucker fish in the river in a snow storm with a bow and arrow!  Everyone knew those boys loved to hunt.

            Every winter the boss would send the two bachelor waddies up to the West Camp to keep an eye on the cows on the mountain.  Louis (sixty if he was a day) did most of the cookin’ and cleanin’, and so made Ron (mid twenties we’ll guess) deal with all of the machinery that Louis so detested . . . chainsaws, pump jacks, and oh yeah . . . the feed wagon (that’s a flatbed pick-up truck with a big cake feeder mounted on it, for those who were  wondering).

            One frosty morning, Ron stumbled out into the predawn to fire up the ‘ol feed wagon.  It was a diesel, and although plugged in religiously during the winter cold, it was ALWAYS stubborn to start.  As Louis finished cookin’ the eggs and ham, he heard the distinct crankin’ of the cantankerous engine.

            Uhuhhuhhhumph.   Tick-tick-tick.  Uhuhhhuhuhhhuhumph.  Tick-tick-tick.

            “It’ll kick this time” Louis thought to himself as he pulled the biscuits out of the oven.

            Uhuhhhuhuhhhuuu…a . . . a . . . ticketyticketytick . . . then silence.

            “Dead battery” Louis mused to himself.  “Grub’s ready!” he hollered.

            Ron stomped into the cabin, madder than a border collie at a sheep convention on a short leash.  “Is the battery charger in the shed?” he demanded of Louis.  But Louis paid him no mind.  Instead, he just kept methodically chewing his breakfast while he slowly nodded, staring straight ahead.  “Two mad’s don’t make a happy” Louis thought to himself.

            Once breakfast was cleaned up, Louis brought the last cup of coffee out to the front step to catch the first sun.  Ron, fiddling in frustration under the feed wagon’s hood, didn’t notice the approaching pickup truck. 

            It was Pork Chop, the ranch cook.  Pork Chop made a weekly run from headquarters out to all of the camps in the winter to deliver groceries and mail . . . if anyone was lucky enough to have any.  As he pulled up into the yard, he killed the motor and coasted to a stop next to the feed wagon.  Pork had noticed the battery charger and was preparing some smart-aleck remark.  But before he could get it out, Louis spoke up.

“Mornin’ Pork.  Did you know ‘ol Ron there has already been huntin’ this morning?”  Ron almost hit his head, jerkin’ out from under that hood, surprised someone else was there.

            “Ya don’t say” Pork Chop replied in his deep, gravely voice, a sly smirk appearing on his face as he knew something was up.

            “Yup” Louis timed his delivery carefully, “he got up early this morning and killed hisself a BATTERY!”

            Ron threw a screwdriver in Louis’ direction.

            “Reckon what the bag limit is on them?” Pork said with a laugh, and another screwdriver flew his direction.

            “Wouldn’t know” Louis finished, eyes wide, “but I knew that battery was a goner, on account of I could see its TERMINAL!”

. . . and on occasion, we’ll answer some e-mail from our readers . . .

Dear Hickey,

            I’m a barrel racer who married a team roper.  Do you think I should turn my barrel horse into a head horse?

                         Just Wonderin’,

                                    Jen, from Oil Drum, Texas

Dear Wonderin’ Jen from Oil Drum,

            No, I don’t believe I’d do that, and here’s the reason why.  Barrel horses are generally much faster than head horses, so you should have no problem outrunning the head horse before you turn in, thus avoiding a collision.  Should you turn in to a head horse while on your barrel horse, you may actually be knocked to the ground, as head horses are known for their stoutness and ability to take a jerk (and in your husband’s case, I hope his head horse ain’t carrying one!).  The resulting collision could hurt you, Jen, and we don’t want that, now do we?   From here on out, why don’t you just outrun all of those old head horses, and then you won’t have to worry about turning into any!  Then, you can just concentrate on turning into BARRELS . . . which will keep the future of rodeo in tact.  Thanks a lot for your letter, and good luck!  Turn-and-burn baby, turn and burn . . . and . . . your welcome.