skit #36: twennytwo

'Nineteen, twenny, twennyone, twennyt-- no twennytwo, hell.'

The cowboy recalled the boss noting calf Twenty-Two by name, 'Lulu', a milky-hided heifer borne with a latent maternal warmth that he described solemnly as 'plumb beatific.' The cowboy had never had one to call his Twenty-Two, nor had his boy.

The cowboy knew he had no alibi. No indians or bandits: Ten miles too far and ten years too late to blame the Apaches; and on this route, there was more money in honest work than rustling. The calf must have stolen away along with his sobriety and wits as he nipped spirits and napped under the watch of the languid piñon trees.

A full moon hung that night, or maybe one day prior or past or every night, would lend just enough light to see Lulu's white haunches against the gypsum desert. Nothing is dark under the curiosity of moonlight, only blue.

The boy, eleven years or so, could easily manage the herd; they lolled with fatigue, lowing complacently. The boy tended the campfire and watched his father depart, the light's dim reach illuminating him as a cowboy, then dimmer as a stranger, dimming again to an implication, then effusing him in that blue color of the unknown afar.

He rode his roan past the gorge, past the valley, regressing all the way into the desert he, his boy, and the herd had so arduously crossed this week past. He swaddled himself in blankets and slugged rye when he grew hungry. He gnawed on jerky and slugged rye when he grew hungry. He fidgeted with his rifle and slugged rye when he grew scared. But he owned no tool nor elixir to produce Lulu.

The cowboy rode for weeks, perhaps months. He had forgotten of his son, of the herd, of his boss, of the length of his whiskers, of the hoofprints he followed, of the direction he rode, of Lulu, of Twenty-Two, of twennytwo. He subsisted on rye and the curious blue.

A herd of Twenty-Twos roamed the same gypsum desert, but never within the cowboy's sight. Each head an alabaster calf, each head a veritable Lulu. They bore brands from all the ranches that drove cattle on that trail: Samson, Villanueva, Mondekker, Riley, the cowboy's boss, among dozens. The Twenty-Twos could not be claimed by any master, their hides invisible during the white day, their brands illegible during the blue night.