A Drifting Cowpoke

The desert’s a lonely place. A span of nothing but sand and dead plants. A home for rejects, fools and horses. The desert’s drenched in the red hue of sun and sand, giving it a hellish look. There’s peace in the silence. Something to be found - something to be desired.

My horse trundles on, tired, occasionally rearing its head in frustration at the emptiness that hangs on ahead. I haven’t slept in days. My supply of dry crackers and gin runs lower every day I waste in this place. I got to get to town. This place is just a tomb, and I can feel my skeleton growing comfy in it. Comfier than it ever was in my skin.

I keep a large pistol that I robbed from an old man close to my hip. You never know who you’ll run into. I used it once. Just to fire at the sun. I wanted to hear something. Something loud, bold and confident. I never liked guns. Or stealing, for that matter. But there’s something bout this place that makes a man do everything he swore he wouldn’t. When I was a boy, I always wanted to be a cowboy. The stories my mama told me. The lone cowboy riding in on his stallion to save the southern belle. The gunfights and clothes always appealed. It was never that glorious in real life. She always made it sound … so vibrant. So alive. Nothing like this in the slightest. That’s the American Dream for you.

I wanted to be great. I wanted people to sing songs about my travels as they sat around a campfire. To be old and worn and look back on my life with pride. Now I got no-one. I started speaking to my horse. It began as just little remarks. Small conversation which became long monologues, like I was some sort of great ranger. I’m tired now. Sick of this saddle, bored of the sand and the heat, but if I stop now, I might never get started again. I never needed much in life. Even now, as I complain, I am content. I’ve seen tumbles of stars that hang above like blankets over the desert. I’ve watched the world spin slow and lonesome in a way most folk could never dream of.

As night pulled closer, the lights of a small town also grew nearer. I could rest for one night. The town was equally bare with windows boarded like some kind of sick ghost town. There was an atmosphere I couldn’t quite place my finger on, but whatever it was, it made me uncomfortable. Not a soul in sight, but I could feel eyes staring at me. Sizing me up. Maybe here I’d find a woman to love, and she’d join me on my journey, we’d watch the stars together, laughing at nothing and smiling at everything.

Stray dogs tiptoe across shadows, prowling in the comfort of the dark, searching for scraps. Ribs stick visibly out of their chests with each bone clear and defined. I lower my head, hiding my eyes. A sign of respect. One animal – one human, but both living the same. Strays. I spat hard in the dust and kept moving.

When my head was heavy with dreams of being a cowboy, I felt alive, and the road was hopeful. Now I’ve spent many sleepless nights watching and waiting for something to save me from my fate. I’ve been running in circles so long my feet are stuck in the sand beneath. I think if I had tried to do something and be something, I could’ve been great. I dreamed of being a legendary lone ranger. But now I’m just old, lonely and worn and ain’t nothing left in me.

I had a woman. She loved me once, and I thought she’d go right on loving me forever, no matter what I did. That’s what she promised. Said she’d follow me wherever I wanted to be. But promises - they’re easy to make when you're young, and it feels like you’ve got it all. But I grew bitter, and she grew bored. We grew hungry, and I grew poor. So, we left together. Same road and everything.

Just opposite directions.

Since then, I ain’t ever stopped. I stayed drunk and I stayed moving. Some nights I’d imagine where she was in the world. Maybe she’d found a town and settled down. Married a nice man with a nice job and had three nice children. Hell, maybe she’d name one of them after me. I like to think she thinks of me sometimes. That she sits up real quick at night, sweating, worried about me and where I am. Makes the road a little less lonely.

Now I’m a lost cowboy with a road going nowhere. Nobody singing songs or saying stories about what I’ve done. I’m stuck in miles of dust, dark and dunes. No stopping now. I pull my hat over my eyes, bury my heels into my horse and ride on – a drifting cowpoke with no name and no home.