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Wannabe Cowboy

John Duncklee

    Pat Martin, a lifetime resident of New Rochelle, New York, retired from his lucrative insurance business after thirty years. He had realized early on in his career that New Rochelle would provide him with enough wealthy clients for an above average income that would give him opportunities to invest in the securities listed in the biggest gambling hall in the world, the New York Stock Exchange. He was always able to talk those clients into over-insuring their expensive Westchester homes. In his eyes, that was far better than commuting to Manhattan every day just to increase his insurance business. Pat also knew that in Manhattan he would be competing with the slickest of the slick insurance agents in the business.
    Once established in New Rochelle new clients approached him on the basis of recommendations from others. He began cutting his office hours in the small space he had leased. This gave him time to explore the stock market and keep an eye on his investments. Pat Martin did well. He not only found a smart broker, he developed what he referred to his “gut feeling” about market trends. He was wrong about the “big board’s” direction only once, but that did not amount to any substantial loss. In fact, as he bragged to his cronies at lunch in Schrafft’s New Rochelle branch restaurant, “That loss gave me a nice loss that I deducted from my taxes. Sure helped that year.”
    When he decided to retire, he and Marge discussed at supper one evening where they wanted to go. The discussion continued for several evenings. Pat had been a fan of Western shoot‘em-up novels all of his adult life. More than anything he wanted to fulfill his dream of buying a ranch in the West where he could become a cowboy. Marge wanted to move to Florida where many of their friends had chosen for retirement. They argued back and forth until, of course, Pat finally won. Then they went round and round as to where in the West they would become ranch owners.
    Pat maintained that “most of the West happened in New Mexico” because Billy the Kid was famous there, and Pat thought Pat Garrett was the finest lawman west of the Mississippi. There was one time that he almost changed his mind about Garrett when he read that the famous lawman had met his maker from a gunman’s bullet as he was relieving himself in the sagebrush between Las Cruces and Alamogordo, New Mexico. Pat was almost disappointed in his hero, but made up his mind that whoever wrote the story never knew the lawman, or was jealous of his bravery.
    Pat and Marge decided to make an exploration trip to southern New Mexico before making a final decision. The flight from LaGuardia to El Paso was smooth and uneventful. They were surprised at the change in climate because they left New Rochelle the second week in March with a few snow banks that were remnants of snow banks from plows. When they deplaned in El Paso, they didn’t need their heavy overcoats.
    “This is almost like Florida,” Pat said.
    “I don’t see an ocean,” Marge half grunted her reply.
    “Well, I saw the Rio Grande as we made our approach,” Pat said.
    “I saw it, too, and there is about enough water in it to wash a miniature poodle if you don’t spill any.”
    “Dammit Marge, give New Mexico a chance. After all El Paso is Texas.”
    “It didn’t look any different from twenty thousand feet.”
    Pat retrieved their luggage and they went to the rent-a-car desk.
    The attendant stepped over in front of Pat and Marge. “What can I do for you today?” she asked.
    “I would like to rent a pickup, because we will be looking for a ranch to buy,” Pat said.
    “I have only one available. It is a Ford 150. Would that be satisfactory?”
    “That sounds fine to me,” Pat said, after glancing at Marge to gauge her feelings about renting a pickup instead of a regular automobile.
    They finished the transaction, and Pat and Marge went to the parking area. After putting their luggage in the bed of the pickup, they got into the cab and started the engine. Off they went to get onto Interstate 10 that would take them to Las Cruces, New Mexico, some fifty miles from the border city of El Paso. Pat had told Marge earlier that according to his research, the International Border was no longer safe because of the drug wars between drug cartels and between the drug cartels and the Mexican police.
    After checking in to a motel off the Interstate, they went to a western apparel store where Pat bought what he thought were appropriate “cowboy clothes”, including a pair of high heeled cowboy boots. When he walked out of the store Marge, with arms akimbo, stood and watched her husband navigate to the pickup in his new, strange footwear.
    “Why are you intent on wearing those cowboy boots when you can barely walk in them?” Marge asked, giggling once they were back in the pickup.
    “If I am going to look for a ranch to buy I want to look like a cowboy,” Pat said.
    Marge turned her head and looked out of the passenger side window while shaking her head in disbelief.
    Inside the real estate office Marge sat down and listened to the agent describe the various properties that were in his listing book. She felt embarrassed for Pat in the way he looked out of place in his newly purchased clothing. Marge also noticed that the real estate agent kept glancing at Pat’s new cowboy hat and wrinkling his brow.
    “I think I have just the ranch for you, Mister Martin. It is near Hatch. But, that is not a long drive. Would you like to see it now?”
    “That would be fine, wouldn’t it Marge,” Pat said. “We came to buy a ranch so we might as well get that done as soon as possible.”
    Marge sat siIently in her chair. The agent led them to his Ford Explorer for the drive to Hatch.
    Before arriving in Hatch the real estate agent turned off on a dirt road leading to some farms with irrigated pasture, a few metal buildings and deposits of old farm machinery. The impression was that the area was a haven for junk. They stopped just inside a wooden gate that the agent opened, then drove through. Pat and Marge got out and stood by the car to wait for the agent to see if anyone was at home.
    A stocky woman came to the door after the agent had knocked several times. She opened the screen door enough to talk with the agent face to face. A moment later she was back inside with the door closed and the agent was on his way back to the Explorer. Upon his return he opened the door for Marge and told them that the farmer was out in the barn working on some machinery. He also warned his clients that the farmer was quite deaf and to make matters worse refused to wear a hearing aid. Pat and Marge followed the agent to the barn where they found the farmer occupied with repairing an old tractor. After introductions had been made it was obvious that the old man was not able to hear much of what the agent had to say. They decided to let the agent talk to the farmer as best he could while they waited in the Explorer.
    Twenty minutes later the agent walked back to the Explorer and got in behind the steering wheel.
    “The old man has twenty acres left with the house and barn. There’s a small irrigation well that can irrigate the twenty and the house looks twice as old as the couple. They want to move to Deming where their daughter works in the school system. He is firm on his price of a hundred seventy-five thousand cash.”
    “That sounds like a lot of money for a twenty-acre ranch,” Pat said.
    “Well, if you compare it with the other places I have for sale, it is a bargain,” the agent said.
    The agent started the Explorer and drove back to Las Cruces. Back in his office the three chatted about the place and real estate in general around the area. Within an hour, Pat wrote a check as deposit on his offer of one hundred fifty thousand.
    “I’ll take you back to your motel and then run this out to Hatch to see if they will take your offer,” the agent said.
    Two and a half hours later the agent knocked on the Matins’ motel door. Pat was quick to open it and the agent stood there with a smile on his face. “Well, Mister and Missus Martin, you have bought yourselves a twenty acre ranch. Welcome to New Mexico.”
    A month later the old farm couple had finished moving to Deming and the Martins took possession of their new acquisition. Both Pat and Marge had become tired of living in the Las Cruces Motel. The house was empty of furnishings. They went inside and inspected the rooms. Marge put her hands on her hips when they reached what looked like the master bedroom. “Pat, I don’t know about you, but I am not moving into this dump until it gets new floors and fresh paint. But, before the paint, the walls need patching almost everywhere.”
    “I am sure there are people around Hatch that can do anything you want in the house.”
    “I hope you are right,” Marge said, out of the corner of her mouth.
    “I’ll bet we can get this place fixed up to be a dream house while we are back in New Rochelle selling our house there,” Pat said.
    “Pat, my dear, I think it would be best to keep the New Rochelle house until we are really sure about spending the rest of our days in this dump.”
    “What do you mean, ‘dump’? This place has a lot of potential.”
    “Potential! Potential, my butt,” she said. “We would probably be better off bulldozing this piece of junk down and building a new house,” Marge said.
    “By golly, I never thought about that, Marge. But, I don’t like that solution. I like the idea of living in the old ranch house with all its charm and history. We can stay in the motel in Las Cruces while the house is being fixed up.”
    Marge reluctantly agreed, but she was also angry with herself for not insisting on the bulldozing idea. She remained at the motel in front of the TV or went sight seeing in Las Cruces while the construction project was going on. There were days when she spent her time browsing in the many shops in Mesilla, a pastime she enjoyed more than trying to find something interesting in Las Cruces.
    Pat spent every day in Hatch, overseeing the project, but saying little to the workers. Ken Clafter was the man Pat found to be the contractor. He proved to be expert in the construction trades and did a lot of the work himself. One day, Clafter found Pat standing out in the twenty-acre field and approached him with an idea. “Pat, what do you have in mind for that field?” he asked.
    “I was just wondering about that myself. I suppose I ought to run cattle on it seeing that I am now a rancher,” he said.
    Ken couldn’t help but look at Pat from his cheap boots to his miss shaped hat. He wanted to laugh at Pat for saying he was a rancher, but he also didn’t want to antagonize the source of the good money that he was bringing home from the construction project. “My uncle told me to tell you that he might be interested in running some steers here. Would you be interested in talking to him?”
    “Sure, why not? It will be better than walking around here doing nothing.”
    Ken took off in his pickup, returning in a few minutes with his Uncle Elmer. Elmer Cobbleshell had a different look about him than Ken, the contractor. Elmer wore a battered felt Stetson that had sweat stains almost covering the entire brim and half the crown. His Levis were well faded, especially in the knees and thighs. Elmer’s cowboy boots had crude patches on the tops and the toes. The heels were scuffed so that anyone familiar with the cowboy life could tell that Elmer Cobbleshell was a genuine cowboy.
    “Kenny said you might be interested in what I have to offer,” Elmer said, a soggy toothpick still pressed between his lips.
    “He said something about running some steers on this twenty-acre pasture,” Pat said.
    “Well, I wouldn’t call this twenty a pasture yet. You would have to plant it and irrigate it before it could be called a pasture.”
    “Tell me then, what you have in mind,” Pat said.
    Elmer tipped his scroungy old hat back with his thumb and scratched the front of his baldhead. “This field will take diskin’ and a spike toothed harrow before it gets planted. I have a tractor and the implements to get that done. But, I’ll need seed for permanent pasture and that doesn’t come cheap. Of course there’s a lot of irrigatin’ to do and there needs to be a fence down the middle so the steers can’t get into the freshly irrigated half and punch holes in the turf with their hooves.”
    “That does sound like a lot of work,” Pat said. “How long will all that take?”
    “Once I get started I’ll have the pasture planted in a week. However it will be three or four months before we can turn the steers in, depending on the weather. A feller doesn’t want to start grazin’ new pasture too early.”
    “I need to know who pays for what,” Pat said.
    “Seein’ how I am doin’ all the farm work and buyin’ the steers, you buy the wire for the fence, the seed for the permanent pasture and the electric for the irrigatin’ pump. Then, since you are furnishin’ the pastureland and all, you’ll get a steer when they are ready to sell. You can either sell it with the others or I’ll get you together with someone who can slaughter, cut and wrap the beef. You’ll have enough beef in your freezer for at least a year.”
    “How do you figure that?” Pat asked.
    “The steer should weigh about eight hundred pounds when it is finished on the pasture. It will dress out around sixty percent, and that includes the hide. That should give you around four hundred and eighty pounds of meat. The chances are you won’t eat beef all the time so that should last you a year. It’s a helluva deal no matter how you look at it.”
    “What in hell am I going to do with the hide?” Pat asked.
    “The man I have in mind to slaughter your steer knows how to cure a hide and make a nice rug or wall hanging out of it.”
    “You know, Elmer, that sounds like a helluva deal to me so let’s do it,” Pat said, holding out his hand to shake with Elmer, who took Pat’s hand and clasped it firmly. Pat had read that all deals in the West got sealed with a handshake.
    That evening when Pat returned to the motel he told Marge about his transaction with Elmer. Marge’s only reaction was to ask Pat if he got it in writing.
    “Of course not, Marge,” Pat said. “That would be an insult out here in the West.”
    “Suit yourself, it’s your ranch.”
    Pat then described the deal in detail including the rug made out of the hide. For a moment he thought that maybe Marge was going to be excited about having a rug made out of their very own steer, but she turned away to continue watching the television.
    Pat walked out to the motel’s bar and sat down to his first Scotch on the rocks of the evening. All he could think about was how he could possibly get Marge interested in “The Ranch”, as he had become used to referring to the Hatch property. After the third scotch he began imagining the twenty-acre pasture all with green grass and dotted with steers of different colors.
    Two weeks later The Ranch had permanent pasture seed planted in the twenty-acre field. Three months later, after some mild spring temperature, the permanent pasture had grown to the point where Elmer told Pat that it was ready to graze. Elmer had all the steers in his own pasture, so he drove five of them to Pat’s and closed the gate. They were gentle and went right to the pasture and its green grass. Elmer told Pat that his own pasture had little left in it after a winter’s use. Two weeks later Elmer brought the rest of the steers and turned them out on The Ranch.
    “The total on pasture is sixty head,” Elmer said to Pat, who was leaning on the boundary fence watching the cowboy work at getting the steers through the gate into the pasture. “I think the pasture is strong enough to carry that many.” Elmer said. “If it looks like they are eating it down too fast, I’ll move ‘em out, at least some of them.
    Pat drove Marge out to The Ranch the following day to show her the steers on the pasture. Kenny came out of the house when he saw Marge. “The house is just about done, Missus Martin. All that’s left is painting the trim around the back porch,” Kenny said. “You can start moving in anytime.”
    Pat and Marge spent a week shopping for furniture and household things. They had decided not to move their furniture and other belongings from New Rochelle because the New Rochelle furnishings fit the New Rochelle scene. Little or nothing of their eastern belongings fit the flavor of Hatch, New Mexico. Marge had not explored Las Cruces enough to have many ideas about furnishing the new farmhouse so she relied on the salesmen in the various stores where she went to shop. Pat put up no arguments to her selections because he wanted her to feel happy with what was his choice of location.
    After they sat down to their first supper in the new house Pat repeated his past description of all the beef their steer would produce from filets to standing rib roasts with the bonus of a steer hide rug that they could place in front of the living room fireplace. Marge changed the subject. “This place is very nice, Pat, but I am still wondering about living so far from a city.”
    “Heavens, Marge, Las Cruces is just a short drive and there is always El Paso.”
    “Come now Pat, you certainly cannot compare those burgs with Manhattan.”
    “I’m not trying to compare them with Manhattan. I am really glad to be away from all those crowds in New Rochelle. And, just think of all that tasty beef we will have in the freezer. That will sure beat those skimpy portions at Schrafft’s.”
    “Oh, come now, Pat. Don’t start griping about Schraffts, the big difference between Schrafft’s and this ranch is that you may have to stand in line to get seated at Schrafft’s, but once you are in your chair they bring everything you want right to your table. Then they clear off the dirty dishes.”
    “There’s a good restaurant in downtown Hatch that serves great Mexican food,” Pat said.
    “I have heard all I want to hear about famous Hatch Chile and Mexican food. This is not Mexico.”
    “It used to be,” Pat said. “I have been reading up on the history here.”
    “Well, let’s eat before this roast pork gets cold,” Marge said, and took up her knife and fork.
    Life for the Martins begged excitement for the next four months. Marge spent most of her time sitting on the front porch reading romance novels or inside watching the television. Pat kept busy at his new job as irrigator of his twenty- acre pasture filled with grass-chomping steers. Elmer had taught Pat what had to be done to keep the pasture growing and Pat was more than happy to take over the chore. Irrigating also gave him the opportunity to watch the steers grow and fatten on the pasture.
    One early morning Elmer arrived riding a sorrel gelding. Pat was enjoying his first cup of coffee when Elmer rode up to the house and dismounted. Pat hurried to the front door and opened it.
    “What are you doing here so early?” Pat asked.
    “I’ve come to drive the steers over to my corrals where there’s a loading chute. I’ve got a buyer coming out to look at them this afternoon.”
    “Do you need any help?” Pat asked, hoping that Elmer would say yes, but remembering that he still hadn’t bought a horse.
    “Naw, there’s just enough of those critters for one man to drive over there. It ain’t far.”
    Pat went back inside to his coffee. Elmer mounted the sorrel and rode over to the gate to the pasture.
    After breakfast, Pat walked over to the pasture and sighed. He missed seeing the steers. He turned around and returned to the house. He was somewhat excited to hear what the buyer thought about the steers. Marge came to the kitchen an hour later and inquired who had been the visitor. Pat told her about Elmer coming to get the steers.
    Pat sat out on the porch with the latest in the series of Western novels all written by Jake Logan. Pat had read all the books in that series. He thought Jake Logan must spend all his time writing books to have so many in print. Marge finished her breakfast, and then went out to the porch to join her husband. Both concentrated on their reading until Elmer, still mounted on the sorrel, rode into the yard. He dismounted. Pat noticed a disappointed look on Elmer’s face as he approached the porch.
    “Well folks, I got some bad news for you,” Elmer said.
    Pat and Marge quickly looked at one another.
    “On the way to my corrals a kid on a motorcycle reved up his engine and spooked the steers and those critters broke loose and ran on down the road toward town. They ran out in front of a big semi-truck before the driver could stop. The truck killed your steer.”
    Pat and Marge looked at each other again with surprised looks on both their faces. Elmer quickly remounted the sorrel and rode off toward his place.
    With her hands on her hips and standing face to face with Pat, Marge scowled. “What does that old scoundrel mean, ‘the truck killed your steer’? How is it that the one steer the truck killed was ours?”
    “It must have been the steer Elmer had picked out to slaughter and cut up for our freezer,” Pat said, and scratched his nose.
    Pat got into his pickup and drove over to Elmer’s farm. As he approached the house he glanced over at the corrals and saw the steers with their heads in a long feed trough eating hay. He didn’t count them. Counting them wouldn’t have meant anything anyway because he had not counted them when they arrived in the pasture. It hadn’t occurred to him to count the steers in order to know how many there were in case they got out of the pasture for some reason.
    Pat and Elmer talked about getting another batch of steers to grow out in Pat’s pasture. When Pat drove back into his yard he saw Marge sitting on the front porch with two suitcases flanking her. He got out of the pickup and walked over to the porch.
    “What’s going on, Marge?” He asked. “What are you doing here on the porch with these suitcases?”
    “I am waiting for the taxi from Las Cruces since Hatch doesn’t have a taxi.”
    “Why are you waiting for a taxi, Marge?”
    “I am going to Florida,” she replied in an abrupt tone of voice.
    “Why?” he asked.
    “Because, I am leaving this so-called ranch and going back to civilization. I went along with coming out West because you wanted to be a cowboy. I listened to that hair-brained scheme of Elmer’s with those steers. Now, Lone Ranger, you lose your entire herd because of a motorcycle and a semi-truck. Masked man I think you should change characters and become the masked man’s faithful Indian companion, Tonto. When you need something to do look up ‘Tonto’ in a Spanish-English dictionary and you will discover that ‘Tonto’ means ‘Stupid’. Here comes my Taxi.”

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