Cowboy

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The old fella makes me go into the house in my stocking feet. The old lady’s in a big chair next to the window. In fact, the whole room is full of big chairs, but she’s only in one of them — though, big as she is, she could fill up several. The old man says, “I found this one in the loose-horse pen at the sale yard.”

She says, “What’s he supposed to be?”

He says, “Supposed to be a cowboy.”

“What’s he doin in the loose horses?”

I says, “I was lookin for one that would ride.”

“You was in the wrong pen, son,” the old man says. “Them’s canners. They’re goin to France in cardboard boxes.”

“Soon as they get a steel bolt in the head.” The big old gal laughs in her chair.

Now I’m sore. “There’s five in there broke to death. I rode ’em with nothin but binder twine.”

“It don’t make a shit,” the old man says. “Ever one of them is goin to France.”

The old lady don’t believe me. “How’d you get in them loose horses to ride?”

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