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The Ultimate Wannabe Cowboy

John Duncklee

    Dusty Traylor, loaded down with two Peacemakers and a Spencer rifle, plus two pockets of his buffalo hide chaps filled with ammunition, ran as fast as his stubby legs could support his corpulent body at the speed he strived for to escape the wrath of the five men that chased him down the road next to the International border between El Paso and Juarez. Blood gushed from his nose and mouth from the over exertion. He reached up and wiped at the blood with the sleeve of his buckskin shirt and continued his run for the safety of Texas. He looked ahead and was overjoyed at seeing the entry to El Paso a hundred yards away. That hundred yards seemed to Dusty like a hundred miles, but he kept running. At least he thought he was running, but his legs had rebelled and he was walking and didn’t realize it. With one glance back he saw that his pursuers had closed the distance between them to fifty yards. Quickly, he turned back his head to the goal and with all the strength he could muster, walked as fast as he could.
    By this time the blood from his mouth and nose had made a gory pattern on the front of his buckskin shirt, and the crotch of his trousers gave proof that he was traveling scared. He glanced back at his pursuers and saw that they, too, were slowing down. Dusty wanted to scream in order to attract the attention of the border guards so that they might come to his rescue, but when he tried to issue a scream he found he was so out of breath that no sound came forth.
    The panicking had another thought that he hoped would help him run faster. He decided to toss the Spencer rifle away to lighten his load. He hated to part with the antique rifle that he had purchased on line from a collector for a thousand dollars. As he stumbled forth he tossed the rifle onto a pile of rocks. No sooner had the rifle hit the rock pile, than it exploded, sending a bullet toward the men pursuing the faltering Dusty. They hit the ground immediately, thinking that their prey had begun shooting at them. The Spencer firing surprised Dusty. He had forgotten that he had loaded the magazine and he couldn’t remember if he had cocked the rifle or not. When he saw the men chasing him fall to the ground he was overjoyed and that thrill gave him a second wind.
    Arriving at the custom desk where people entering the United States placed their luggage if they had any, the puffing Dusty grabbed the railing and stood there looking at the agent eyeball to eyeball.
    “Passport?” The agent said.
    Dusty fished into his hip pocket, withdrew a bent and wrinkled passport and handed it to the agent who opened it and looked at the entries. Dusty had still not recovered his breathing enough to say anything.
    “What are those weapons you have there?” The agent asked.
    “They are my Peacemakers. They are both antique weapons.”
    “You cannot bring those into the country unless you can show me the receipts you have when you purchased the guns.”
    “Hell’s fire,” Dusty said, barley getting the words out. “I don’t have any receipts. I paid cash for these at an auction in Missouri.”
    “You will have to surrender the weapons. Put them on the table.”
    Reluctantly, Dusty unholstered the two Peacemakers and placed them on the metal top of the table.
    “You can keep the holsters and you will have thirty days to retrieve the Peacemakers, or earlier if you can find the receipts,” the agent said. “You are free to go.”
    Dusty didn’t care about the Peacmakers as long as he could escape the men who had chased him all the way from the Bar where he had been enjoying some shots of Sauza Hornitos before heading back after his unsuccessful venture with a prostitute next door to the bar.
    Just as Dusty was about to leave and enter his native country, a a fat woman with large breasts that swung like pendulums across her chest, broke through the line that had formed behind Dusty and began yelling epithets in Spanish at him as she beat on his chest with her fists.
    “What’s going on here?” The surprised agent asked.
    The woman stopped beating on Dusty’s chest momentarily to blurt out in broken English. “This son of a beech no pay me. He take off and no say nothing. We go to my room. He take off pants; cannot find his pony. Then he takes off. He no unerstan he mus pay Maria no matter he find pony or not. He have too big a pansa, belly. No can see pony under pansa. He son of beech, no pay Maria. He owe me twenty dolla.”
    Dusty reached into his pocket and took out a roll of bills, peeling off a twenty that he handed to the mad Maria. Then, he took off through the gate to reach the safety of his country. He looked back and saw the pursuers standing in line waiting to cross as well. He relaxed because he didn’t see how those hoodlums would ever be granted permission to cross the border into the United States of America.
    Almost a block away from the border entry Dusty could not resist stepping into a Bar that had a sign out front that proclaimed it was “The best bar north of the border”. He had walked all the way, but didn’t see the five men that had been pursuing him pass through the gate after showing the agent their passports. Dusty sat on a barstool relaxing as much as he could after the terrible fright he had experienced leaving Juarez. He didn’t see the five men pass by on their way to the Hotel Fronteriza, the hotel where Dusty was staying while attending the Horeshit and Gunsmoke Writers of the West annual convention. However, he did remember that he had been elected president of the organization. After two shots of Sauza Hornitos, Dusty struggled off the barstool, went out to the street and walked to the hotel. He thought that as president he should see what was going on.
    The doorman opened the tinted glass door when Dusty waddled toward the entrance. Dusty put his hand to his straw WalMart “Stetson” saluting the man and passed through. To his complete surprise the five men that had been chasing him in Juarez blocked his path. He stopped waddling and stood still. He felt his entire body shivering, not from cold since the June temperature in El Paso hovered around one hundred degrees. Dusty Traylor felt the crotch of his trousers dampen once again.
    He pushed the brim of the WalMart Stetson up revealing his sweating forehead. “What is it that you fellers want from me, anyway?” He asked, as he looked swinging his head for a panoramic view.
    “We are here for several reason,” the tallest of the five said. “We are the partners in the Cathouse where you were and did not pay Maria. We are wondering why not.”
    “I didn’t pay her because I didn’t have any pleasure from her.”
    “Maria told us that you couldn’t find your pony. Did you try saying Giddup to your pony?”
    “That is true, and that is why I didn’t pay for something I didn’t get,” Dusty said, hoping his answer would satisfy the five mean looking ruffians.
    “Well mister Gringo, You don’t go to a Lady’s room without paying her no matter what happens and you can’t find your pony. Is this your first time in a cathouse?”
    “First time in a Mexican cathouse,” Dusty said.
    “Well,” the tall one said. “You need to know that we outsourced the Dreamhard Social Club from Las Cruces to Juarez to make more money from our investment, and you not paying is strictly against the rules. Therefore I would advise you to pull out that roll of bills you peeled Maria’s twenty from and hand it over as your fine that we are imposing.”
    “I don’t think you fellows are legally able to impose a fine on anyone,” Dusty Traylor said. “You need to know that I am President of The Horseshit and Gunsmoke Writers of the West and we are holding our annual convention in this hotel.”
    “Mister President, we don’t give a rat’s ass who you are, we only want that roll of bills we saw you with, so let’s get it out of your pocket, or we are going to take you back to Juarez where you will rot in jail for shooting that damned Spencer rifle at us.”
    “How are you going to force me to go to Juarez?” Dusty asked.
    “There are five of us and we are all strong. You may be a fat lard assed stupidido but we will get you there with no trouble at all.”
    Just as Dusty pulled out his roll of bills and handed it to the tallest bandido several conventioneers came out of the bar and approached their president. The shortest man with the brim of his straw hat curled up like he had seen hats on country western singers held out his hand to Dusty.
    The five Cathouse entrepreneurs left quickly as soon as they knew that they had gotten Dusty’s roll of bills.
    “Hey, President Traylor, come on in to the bar. There’s a dozen of us there waiting for you. We are all Jacobo Loganski writers,” the short man said.
    “I have just been robbed of all the money I brought with me from Missouri.”
    “Who the hell robbed you Mister President?” The short man asked, as the others stood waiting.
    It was five bastards that own The Dreamhard Social Club in Juarez.”
    Oh my god,” One of the members said. “Do you mean to say that you went there after our secretary warned everyone in the Corral News? She used to work there when it was in Las Cruces before they outsourced it to Juarez.”
    I reckon I didn’t read that,” Dusty said.
    “Jayzus, it’s our official magazine, Mister President. By the way, Mister President, was your girl’s name Maria?”
    “It sure was,” he said.
    “Well, Mister President, that Maria is our new secretary.”
    “What the hell is she doing working at that place?”
    “When I found her there I asked the same question, and she said the Horseshit and Gunsmoke Writers of the West were not paying her enough to support her lifestyle, so she kept working for those bastards as you refer to them.”
    “Is Maria planning to attend the convention? I need to talk to her,” Dusty said.
    “I don’t think that would be advisable. She was here a few minutes ago at the bar telling how you had paid her a visit and couldn’t find your pony.”

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