D  e  s  e  r  t     E  x  p  o  s  u  r  e     March 2005

Cowboy Logic

These days, you don't have to wear a Stetson and spurs to be a cowboy—just be a straight shooter.

If you're like me, and you've lived in the arid stretches of New Mexico long enough to know what the waitress means when she asks, "Red or green," then you probably have met a cowboy or two by now. Having owned several pickup trucks in various states of decay and sampled virtually every variety of long-neck beer, however, I have noticed an uneasy stigma being assigned to the cowboy. Sort of like bringing up your Uncle Jethro who has seven wives in Utah and pilots a low-flying Cessna every three months to Chiapas, there seems to be a silent agreement that this "cowboy" character is increasingly not to be spoken of due to his social incongruities.

My friends in Europe seem to be awfully quick to throw around the word "cowboy" in much the same way I might use the phrase "egg-sucking dog." "Cowboy" is apparently a way to describe our national foreign policy whenever it involves the use of things not commonly found in Europe, such as action, decisiveness and depleted uranium-tipped weaponry. To the continent that hosted two major BYOB (Bring Your Own Bullets) soirees last century to which we were invited, men of resolve, determination and forcefulness now seem to be undesirable on the global stage. It seems many think that cowboys lack basic diplomatic skills. This is certainly not the case, as demonstrated by that distinguished statesman John Wayne in the movie The Undefeated. After going out to parlay with some unsavory character who didn't negotiate well, Wayne's companion said, "You went out there to talk! Why did you kill that man?" The Duke answered, "Conversation just kinda dried up." That is nothing if not admirable diplomacy and a fine tactic for any senior American official to employ while evading the European press.

Somewhere along the line, I think, a lot of people got the wrong idea about the venerable cowboy, whether a swaggering braggart or a salty ol' dried-up cowpoke. Ever since raising a cow for beef began to make even less fiscal sense than owning a boat, cows aren't even a part of the cowboy way. In fact, now that the vast majority of cowboys have gotten away from having to actually associate with cattle, they are a much more pragmatic bunch. They don't have to schlep around on big, farting quarter horses any longer now that they have balloon-tired ATVs. Cell phones have replaced the ringing triangle as a means of being summoned to dinner. And a sofa and satellite TV are far more entertaining than listening to some ham-fisted Willie Nelson wannabe torture a warped guitar by the campfire at night.

But the real cowboy still exhibits the hallmarks of his breed, and those seem to be the traits that confuse the uninitiated. An ability to make a decision in absence of a committee reviewing all the facts or possible negative outcomes is chief among these traits. For example, the cowboy who decides a welder is suitable fishing tackle for a pond: Instead of piddling away hours waiting for a stupid fish to swallow a hook, one can opt instead to toss the electrodes from a bed-mounted welder into the drink and scoop up the floaters. No cost/benefit analyses, no fact-finding committees, no review of the welder's manuals for proper operational instructions. Sure, fishing with a welder may not be the smartest or most legal way to catch a fish, but one can't argue with the results.

Therein lies the brilliance of the cowboy: results. A willingness to think independently, to supplant discussion with action, even if somewhat misguided.

My uncle, a crusty old dairy farmer in his own right, had a meat-headed heeler that would snap at the shanks of the lackadaisical bovines to get them into the milking machines twice a day. This brainless mutt liked to bounce around in the back of the pickup when he went to town, right up until the day he tried to fly. A blue heeler of some cow-herding repute, the pooch was instantly missed by my uncle, who quickly stopped the truck and went to find the dog, who was unfortunately lying motionless on the road. Never one to give up on a friend, my uncle dropped the truck's tailgate and soundly whacked the dog's carcass against it a couple of times. Even he was surprised when the dog coughed, twitched and shakily stood up again. Of course, my uncle testified the dog was never right again, and tended to drift off course like a car out of alignment, but who ever would have thought to use a tailgate as a resuscitative device? A cowboy.

Unlike the stereotype perpetuated by the anti-cowboy cotillion, there are scads of cowboys all around who don't wear Stetsons, boots, pie-plate belt buckles or six-shooters. A lot of them take their kids to soccer practice, or saddle up a computer from nine to five. Many of them have traded 90-proof for iced tea, and some even have purchased sanitary napkins for their wives. Being a cowboy is an ideal, not an outfit. There just aren't enough horses to ride, or cows left on the range that need wrangling, but there is still a need for plain-speaking, clear-thinking people who can back up their words with actions.

Living where we do, we are blessed that these people are still all around us, and are a part of all of us. I suppose that if the cowboy's qualities are no longer appreciated in the modern world, we can at least take solace in the fact that there is more common sense being exhibited right now over black coffee at the nearest diner than will ever take place at the United Nations.

If the cowboy way is no longer fashionable in the capitals of Europe or the East Coast, then I guess we will just have to find some way to go on with our simple lives as if it doesn't matter. To paraphrase Jack Palance from the movie City Slickers, "I crap bigger'n you."

Henry Lightcap hangs his 10-gallon hat in Las Cruces.

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