Days Gone By
Aaron Gonzales
Atop the mesa, the wind cut through the cowboy’s jacket and chilled his bones. He gritted his teeth and stared out at the land stretched before him. The sun was just barely dipping below the horizon, saturating the entire landscape in a brilliant golden hue.
The cowboy pulled a weathered pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and shook out a single Marlboro Red. He returned the pack to his pocket and fished out a matchbook from McCloud Processing and Packing Plant. He took a single match, struck it, and sheltered it from the wind as he lit the cigarette. The cowboy took a long drag and savored the flavor as he studied the serene desert.
Below, at the foot of the mesa, was a small herd of sheep, perhaps fifty strong. They would be fine for the night, the cowboy figured. There was nowhere for them to go—the entire countryside was divided by ugly fences of barbed wire. Open-range ranching had come to an end, the cowboy accepted. The last time there were wide open pastures were when he was a boy, when outlaws ruled the west and the land lay untamed.
Now, the land was…domesticated, the cowboy figured. Posts of telephone lines stretched throughout the country. Even the wild state of Arizona had a few towns now. The sheriffs were replaced by police departments, their horses replaced by cruisers outfitted with sirens.
The cowboy had smoked the cigarette down to the filter and snuffed out the butt on a nearby rock. He disposed of the butt carefully, putting it in his faded jean hip pocket. He decided it was time to set up camp for the night.
Had it not been for the wind, he might have tried to start a fire. He would have to brave the cold this night instead. The camp was nothing special—only a small pup tent. The cowboy sat in the tent as the wind beat against the canvas and the coyotes howled.
The cowboy pulled out his revolver and began disassembling it. He laid each piece on an oilcloth and cleaned them meticulously, with unerring precision. He reassembled the gun and loaded six rounds in the cylinder, their brass glistening in the kerosene lamp-light.
Not that he would need to shoot it anytime soon, the cowboy thought. The days of highwaymen and cattle-rustlers were long over. He might have to save a bullet for a stray coyote or other vermin, sure, but that was all. He holstered the gun back in his gun-belt, shut off the lamp, and tried to get some sleep.
He slept restlessly, but still slept. He had some dreams, dreams that he remembered when he woke, but quickly faded like the words in an old book.
All the cowboy remembered about the dream was his family’s old spread up in Wyoming. He wondered how it was doing now. No doubt the one-room wood shack was overgrown with weeds now, its wood logs filled with termites. He wondered if it had been plowed over yet to make way for another road or factory.
He remembered the wood-burning stove that was their sole source of heat. He remembered the straw-filled mattresses and the deer-skin rug that adorned the wooden floor. In his dream, the cowboy heard a dog barking. He went out of the shack to look for his dog. He heard the animal bark, but he could not find it. The cowboy searched for his dog and soon found it—except it was a blur. It was vaguely dog-shaped, and the cowboy tried to stare harder to make the image more focused. He could not.
The dog was nonexistent. The only thing left in the cowboy’s mind was a blur. He did not remember the dog. He could not even remember the thing’s name.
The memories were rapidly fading, the cowboy thought in the morning when he woke. He tried to remember other memories of the old family spread, but soon found they too were either blurry or nonexistent. He could not remember the layout of the shack, could not remember the guns he had above his bed, could not even remember the old haberdashery he and his father went to when it was time to resupply.
The cowboy was up before the sun. He left his tent and began to brew dark black coffee. He threw on another jacket, a denim one with a fur collar, for warmth. He put his gun-belt back on, grabbed a cup of coffee, and sipped as he looked out to the rising sun.
By the time he finished the drink, the sun was well past the horizon. He mounted his horse—an old dapple-gray—and descended down to the sheep.
He herded the sheep to a new pasture and closed the gate behind them. Rain was coming soon, he figured. His hip always throbbed before rain came. Most his joints were aching and stiff. The years had not been kind to the body. Perhaps it was his own fault too, the cowboy considered. Had he not taken on this lifestyle, perhaps he might be a little more limber. He lingered on this thought for a while until he became melancholic and pushed it out of his mind.
The sheep were moved, and that’s what mattered. He looked out to the land and saw a distant highway, and saw cars drive on the road.
They were fast. Too fast for his liking, anyway. Everyone was in such a big hurry. He did not like it. The cars were distant and tiny, but the sheer number of them overwhelmed the cowboy. He turned away from the highway and rode up to a hill. From here, he could study the entire land around him.
The view from up here might have been worse than the one below. He saw a town nearby, and saw a factory billowing out dark gray clouds of smog. These clouds mixed with the pure white of true clouds, creating an ugly and disgraceful picture. That was not his place, the cowboy accepted. The town and city were not where he would ever want to live. His place was this countryside, with the sheep and the beauty of the land—no matter how much the sprawl of the city encroached on it.
The cowboy sighed, left the hill, and went back down to the sheep, to his place.
The cowboy pulled a weathered pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and shook out a single Marlboro Red. He returned the pack to his pocket and fished out a matchbook from McCloud Processing and Packing Plant. He took a single match, struck it, and sheltered it from the wind as he lit the cigarette. The cowboy took a long drag and savored the flavor as he studied the serene desert.
Below, at the foot of the mesa, was a small herd of sheep, perhaps fifty strong. They would be fine for the night, the cowboy figured. There was nowhere for them to go—the entire countryside was divided by ugly fences of barbed wire. Open-range ranching had come to an end, the cowboy accepted. The last time there were wide open pastures were when he was a boy, when outlaws ruled the west and the land lay untamed.
Now, the land was…domesticated, the cowboy figured. Posts of telephone lines stretched throughout the country. Even the wild state of Arizona had a few towns now. The sheriffs were replaced by police departments, their horses replaced by cruisers outfitted with sirens.
The cowboy had smoked the cigarette down to the filter and snuffed out the butt on a nearby rock. He disposed of the butt carefully, putting it in his faded jean hip pocket. He decided it was time to set up camp for the night.
Had it not been for the wind, he might have tried to start a fire. He would have to brave the cold this night instead. The camp was nothing special—only a small pup tent. The cowboy sat in the tent as the wind beat against the canvas and the coyotes howled.
The cowboy pulled out his revolver and began disassembling it. He laid each piece on an oilcloth and cleaned them meticulously, with unerring precision. He reassembled the gun and loaded six rounds in the cylinder, their brass glistening in the kerosene lamp-light.
Not that he would need to shoot it anytime soon, the cowboy thought. The days of highwaymen and cattle-rustlers were long over. He might have to save a bullet for a stray coyote or other vermin, sure, but that was all. He holstered the gun back in his gun-belt, shut off the lamp, and tried to get some sleep.
He slept restlessly, but still slept. He had some dreams, dreams that he remembered when he woke, but quickly faded like the words in an old book.
All the cowboy remembered about the dream was his family’s old spread up in Wyoming. He wondered how it was doing now. No doubt the one-room wood shack was overgrown with weeds now, its wood logs filled with termites. He wondered if it had been plowed over yet to make way for another road or factory.
He remembered the wood-burning stove that was their sole source of heat. He remembered the straw-filled mattresses and the deer-skin rug that adorned the wooden floor. In his dream, the cowboy heard a dog barking. He went out of the shack to look for his dog. He heard the animal bark, but he could not find it. The cowboy searched for his dog and soon found it—except it was a blur. It was vaguely dog-shaped, and the cowboy tried to stare harder to make the image more focused. He could not.
The dog was nonexistent. The only thing left in the cowboy’s mind was a blur. He did not remember the dog. He could not even remember the thing’s name.
The memories were rapidly fading, the cowboy thought in the morning when he woke. He tried to remember other memories of the old family spread, but soon found they too were either blurry or nonexistent. He could not remember the layout of the shack, could not remember the guns he had above his bed, could not even remember the old haberdashery he and his father went to when it was time to resupply.
The cowboy was up before the sun. He left his tent and began to brew dark black coffee. He threw on another jacket, a denim one with a fur collar, for warmth. He put his gun-belt back on, grabbed a cup of coffee, and sipped as he looked out to the rising sun.
By the time he finished the drink, the sun was well past the horizon. He mounted his horse—an old dapple-gray—and descended down to the sheep.
He herded the sheep to a new pasture and closed the gate behind them. Rain was coming soon, he figured. His hip always throbbed before rain came. Most his joints were aching and stiff. The years had not been kind to the body. Perhaps it was his own fault too, the cowboy considered. Had he not taken on this lifestyle, perhaps he might be a little more limber. He lingered on this thought for a while until he became melancholic and pushed it out of his mind.
The sheep were moved, and that’s what mattered. He looked out to the land and saw a distant highway, and saw cars drive on the road.
They were fast. Too fast for his liking, anyway. Everyone was in such a big hurry. He did not like it. The cars were distant and tiny, but the sheer number of them overwhelmed the cowboy. He turned away from the highway and rode up to a hill. From here, he could study the entire land around him.
The view from up here might have been worse than the one below. He saw a town nearby, and saw a factory billowing out dark gray clouds of smog. These clouds mixed with the pure white of true clouds, creating an ugly and disgraceful picture. That was not his place, the cowboy accepted. The town and city were not where he would ever want to live. His place was this countryside, with the sheep and the beauty of the land—no matter how much the sprawl of the city encroached on it.
The cowboy sighed, left the hill, and went back down to the sheep, to his place.
Aaron Gonzales is a senior and simply wishes to get out of Roswell. He enjoys restoring classic cars and watching football. Unfortunately, his favorite team is the New York Giants, who haven't been good since 2011.