The secret diary of . . . Lonesome Cowboy Chris Hipkins
Lonesome Cowboy Chip rode his horse through the main street of Dodge without anyone recognising who he was — or if they did, they just plain ignored him, and paid him no mind. But still he waved out to passers-by as he sat high in his saddle.
A chill wind had dropped off the peaks of the Sierra Tinakori Hills. He shivered inside his tattered sheepskins, and steadied the rifle across his knees. His brass-framed, .44 rimfire 1866 Winchester had never been fired — but when the right time came, he knew he would have no hesitation in pulling the trigger.
He stepped into the saloon and saw Baldy Luxon playing cards with the Landlord Gang. No one moved.
And still no one moved to serve him at the bar. Finally, out of pity, the saloon keeper poured Lonesome Cowboy Chip a shot of rotgut. He drank it in one swallow, then turned to face Baldy Luxon and the Landlord Gang as they continued to play cards, raising the stakes higher and higher, until some of them had to shake their tenants for higher and higher rents.
“You boys ain’t worth a damn,” said Lonesome Cowboy Hipkins.
The drinkers in the saloon didn’t hear him — or if they did, they just plain ignored him, and paid him no mind. The truth was that no one in Dodge gave a good goddamn about Lonesome Cowboy Hipkins ever since the day he challenged Baldy Luxon to a gunfight in the main street of Dodge, had his hat shot straight off his head, and ran for cover without firing his Winchester. The time wasn’t right to pull the trigger, he reasoned. The card game continued long into the night. Baldy Luxon was having the time of his life. His head shone like a lamp.
WEDNESDAY
Lonesome Cowboy Chip stood on a chair, and gave a State of Dodge address. Mostly he talked about his ideas on tax reform. It was very boring. The truth was that no one in Dodge gave a good goddamn about his ideas ever since he served as Marshall in the winter of ‘23. His ideas had made no difference to the Ram Raid Gang, which held up every merchant in Dodge, and got away with money, tobacco, and rotgut. Lonesome Cowboy Chip stood by and watched, leaning on his Winchester. The time wasn’t right to pull the trigger, he reasoned.
THURSDAY
Lonesome Cowboy Chip heard a rumour that bandits were conspiring in the Sierra Tinakori Hills. He rode up into the dark, cool forest. Torrential rain began to fall. A high wind howled between the trees. Typical weather for Dodge.
FRIDAY
“Lonesome Cowboy Chip ain’t worth a damn,” said one of the bandits. They all agreed. They wore red bandanas, and stared into the fire. They sat beneath a granite shelf that afforded them shelter from the rain. Their coffee grounds tasted bitter. All they had to eat were a few strips of fried beef and hardtack. “This ain’t no way for us to live,” said another of the bandits. They all agreed. They all agreed, too, that their leader, Lonesome Cowboy Chip, was to blame for their plight. Last year, they were enjoying the good life, and all the trappings of power — until Lonesome Cowboy Chip was elected Marshall. Everything went to hell after that. The bandits looked to Tex McAnulty. He was the one they wanted as leader. He was brave, sensible, a man of the people. Lonesome Cowboy Chip lay nearby on the forest floor, concealed in darkness. He heard every word. He saw their faces reflected in the fire. He silently took out his Winchester, loaded it, and aimed the barrel at Tex McAnulty. The time was right.