Reckon

Day 8

Buffalo blew in, didn't even bother pounding on the door.  Blew it off the hinges.  "Y'all gotta hear this news," he said, his fake drawl thick in the heat of his excitement.

He explained, in his faux-cowboy way, the events of the day.  A saloon, a lasso, Ms. Pritchard and the prize dairy cow.  Train robberies, flapjacks from a slop shack and too many Injuns come barrelin' in.  Had ta save the whole brothel from them robber barons come knockin', lookin' ta take what ain't theirs.  Nothin' a Winchester ain't never solved out there. 'Course, the cavalry came, too, but they was just a bunch a Northern boys playin' at the Great Plains, t'ain't never really been more'n a per-tendin' at the whole deal.  And, sure, at the end 'a the day, Buffalo done rode off inta that there sunset, tipped his hat and sang a low song.  Gallupin', waitin' fer the next chance ta make things right again.  A real Prairie Saint.

Of course, Buffalo was a mad man.  Crazy as hell, but told some interesting stories.  An infectious fake drawl in some cheap, mass-produced boots.  He had the swagger, though.  And no one dared question his authenticity.  That would have been the same as questioning the veracity of the story of the Alamo.  No sir, that would have been a quick way to a quicker beating.  Besides, who wouldn't want a cowboy in his corner, even if that cowboy was all airs?  No, Buffalo was alright.

"I reckon y'all ain't never heard nothin' like that 'round these parts," he finished his newest tale.  Kicked up his boots on the table and I could have sworn he trailed in some dust from the past.  Soles as clean as the ride is long, though, but for a moment I believed.  "Maybe one day I could git one 'a you city slickers to come with me fer a ride."  He tipped his hat at someone who wasn't there.  It was just me and Buffalo sitting in my living room.  Nice, yes, but crazy.  "I reckon."