PORK HUNT

THREE cowboys are out on the range. It’s been a long day and all are hungry. The first cowboy rummages in his saddlebags and pulls out a strip of meat to munch on.

“Got any more of that?” asks the second cowboy.

“Nope. But I can show you where to get some: the bacon tree.”

“The whut?”

“The bacon tree. It’s two hours’ ride yonder.” “You’re pulling my leg.”

“God’s truth. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

The other cowboys are sceptical, but they follow the first cowboy on their horses. It’s tough going, with lots of steep, loose slopes and narrow ridges, and not a scrap of shade. Eventually they reach a deep canyon, and pick their way down to the bottom.

“There,” says the first cowboy. “See? Like ah told ya.”

Sure enough, right in front of them, among all the dry earth and stones, is a rich green shrub, covered in dangling strips of meat.

“Well, I’ll be,” says the third cowboy. He slides off his horse and makes his way to the shrub, but just as he’s reaching out, a gunshot echoes down the canyon. The third cowboy cries out, staggers, turns and stumbles back towards the other two, clutching his belly.

“Run!” he yells, waving his other arm madly. “It’s not a bacon tree! It’s a ham bush!”

Carney Vorrs, email