Supper was over and our favorite crew of cowboys sat around the olâ campfire enjoying roll-yer-owns and the simple pleasures of a Wyoming night. Then the talk turned to politics.
âHey,â Latigo Lou mused, âdidja hear what that liâl Secretary of State feller wants to do?â
âI âmagine he wants to do a whole lotta things,â said Sourdough, âbut Iâll bite. What now?â
âHe wants to unplug all the vote-countinâ machines anâ do it all by hand.â
âBy cowhand?â queried Sourdough.
Latigo Lou chuckled, âNaw, by real hands.â
âDoes that liâl nimrod have any idea how many hands thatâll take?â asked Joe the Wrangler.
âIt donât matter to him,â said Latigo. âHe hates machines anâ only trusts humans. But itâll take a whole passel.â
âJes donât git no bankers to count,â mused the Trail Boss, with a disgusted look, âThem sonsabitches always short count ya on cows anâ money. Then long count ya on what ya owe.â
Cowboys dodged campfire smoke and warmed up to the conversation.
âHe oughta git a few thousand card sharps.â This from Panhandle who spoke from bitter experience. âThem shysters got quick hands. Quickerân yer damn eyes, l tell ya. Them sly bastidsâll count them ballots in no time.â
âHeâll need way moreân a thousand hands,â offered Sourdough, as he segued into, âMy uncle says thereâs a whole family of six-fingered folks down in Georgia, around them chicken farms. Them hillbillies been marryinâ first cousins fer so long, they all got an extra finger on each hand. They can pick up two more chickens than anyone else. Highly prized poultry workers, from what I understand.â
âSeems to me,â said the Kaycee Kid, âthatâs a natural job fer pickpockets. Iffân our Secretary of State can round up a couple thousand of âem from New York or San Francisco, his problems are over. Them gypsies can lift yer wallet without ya feelinâ a thing. Theyâd be better than any damn commie at countinâ votes.â
Rawhide Ricky from Rawlins chimed in, âIffân all we need is extra hands, sex workers might do the trick. You know, like olâ Rosie Palm anâ her five sisters from down there on Front Street. I hear business has tapered off for them gals since the Ivermectin mine closed.â
Banter around the olâ campfire centered on suggestions for adept vote counters. Knife fighters were recommended. Quick draw gunslingers, too. Knittinâ anâ purlinâ grandmas, someone said, would have the patience but would be slow.
âWhoever he gits, they gotta pinkie-promise not to cheat. Like scoutâs honor or somethinâ.â offered the Kaycee Kid, âThat way there fer shore wonât be no monkey business.â
âWait!â interjected Soudough. âNone oâ these folks is gonna work for free. Whereâs the money to pay âem gonna come from?âÂ
This led to serious noggin-scratching in the firelight.
âThereâs only two ways, as I see it.â said Cookie. âEither we make enough money sellinâ them vote-countinâ computers for scrap, or we gotta assess a tax on votinâ, like a poll tax.â
âYâall ainât seeinâ this from a capitalist point oâ view.â Panhandle sipped his coffee and said in a measured tone. âWe get the candidates to pay the vote counters. Like pay âem so many dollars fer so many votes counted for the candidate.â
Cowboys counted on fingers around the olâ campfire, and heads nodded.
âHell,â concluded Panhandle, âweâll make money hand over fist on that deal.â
Cookie brought the meeting to a close by calling for the question. âAll in favor of the liâl Secretaryâs idea, raise your hands.â
Rod Miller can be reached at: RodsMillerWyo@yahoo.com