Rod Miller: If SF69 Was A Roundup – A Campfire Allegory About Property Tax Reform

Exhausted cowpokes reclined on sougans in the circle of campfire light, as Cookie bound up their wounds and set their busted bones. One or two tired hands sucked on oxygen, and nobody had the energy to touch their plate of beans.

“Worst damn roundup I ever been on,” groused Latigo Lou from Lingle, “or even heard about, fer that matter.”

“I had two good horses bottom out on me.” Sourdough could scarcely get the words out before he had to slap the oxygen mask back on. “Mmph grrdm ssmbsh bonefish.” The mask muffled his fervid curses.

Lou’s dust-encrusted face was streaked with tears, as he added, “We ain’t no better off than when we broke camp this mornin’. Helluva waste of a cowboy’s time.”

At first light, our stalwart waddies had spread out to ride the Big Empty like tax collectors out to make an honest buck. They herded little bunches, pairs and single cattle out of the draws and down from rocky ridges, and built a herd on a broad sagebrush flat. 

Whooping and hollering, our crew got the herd lined out and headed toward the railhead. Outriders pushed more stragglers into the bunch, and before long, a fine herd had been gathered that bellowed and pawed dust as it meandered down the trail.

Mid-morning, a lone rider loped up to the herd, waving his hat. “Hang fire, fellers,” he shouted above the mooing of the cattle, “Ya cain’t take ‘em all. Big Boss says ya gotta put half of ‘em back where ya found ‘em.”

“What the hell….” Panhandle stood in his stirrups as he talked with the stranger. “We just got ‘em goin’ good, an’ now we gotta put half back? That don’t make no sense.”

The stranger wore town clothes, and sat his horse uneasily. “I’m just deliverin’ the message,” he said, “put half back where ya found ‘em or somethin’ bad’s gonna happen. Cops will get fired, an’ towns will go thirsty. Bad stuff like that.” 

Message delivered, the stranger rode away.

Panhandle gathered the crew, and passed on the news. “Hells bells,” grumbled Rawhide Ricky from Rawlins, “if this ain’t a sorry excuse fer a roundup.”

But, the cowpokes did as they were told, and returned cattle in small bunches to the hollows and creeks where they were found. Then they returned to the intact half-a-herd, and got them moseying down the trail again.

The rider approached again, and said, “I just got a text. Go back an’ gather up half them cows you put back. Ya was only s’posed to return half the increase since that covid business. Them’s yer orders.”

Ponies were lathered, and cowboys cranky by the time this order was followed. But half of the half was re-gathered and pushed back into the herd.

Afternoon was waning when the rider approached again. “I got ‘nother text. Yer s’posed to peel off all the cows with white spots, an’ them with crooked horns. Keep ‘em separate from the main herd. Yodel to ‘em to keep ‘em calm.”

Something snapped at this news. Cowboys got into fistfights over what “text” meant, and horses began bucking out of sheer fatigue. Yodeling didn’t work, as cattle stampeded, bawling as they ran in every direction to escape the chaos. 

The stranger with the cellphone was dragged from his horse and hogtied in a clump of cactus.

When the dust settled, the prairie was empty...much as it had been before the roundup started. 

Back at the campfire, Cookie ministered to his battered pards, and tried to comfort them by saying, “Heal up quick, fellers. Tomorrow’s another day.”

Rod Miller can be reached at: RodsMillerWyo@yahoo.com