Second Fiddles

This is the story of a town that had two Wild West shows when it really only needed one.

And this is the story of a number two who suddenly became a number one.

And it’s the story of a whole town that didn’t know what to do when that happened.

It’s also the story of dreams and self-doubts and suspicions and regret and people not liking change and folks trying to figure out their place in life.

But mostly, it’s the story of a man with a funny nickname.

###

Welcome to Dusty. It’s a small tourist town nestled in the shadow of the Bum Muck Mountains. Every summer, this craggy, barbed wire-gated, dot-on-a-map swings open its saloon doors to flocks of sun-ripened tourists. They come for the rugged Western scenery. They come for the gluttonous chuck wagon dinners. They come to get foolishly close to the herds of short-tempered bison roaming across the plains on the outskirts of town. But most of all, they come for the thrills and wonders of the celebrated Hickory Hank Wild West Bonanza Extravaganza.

The Hickory Hank Wild West Bonanza Extravaganza is owned and operated by town stalwart Hank Barton. He’s a likeable, old fella who started the show back when he had considerably less hair growing out of his ears. Back then, Dusty was nothing more than a gas pump with a decent view, and Hank had the idea he could turn it into a place where people might consider staying longer than the time it took to put twenty-bucks worth of leaded into the tanks of their station wagons. It required time, energy and fistfuls of money he didn’t have, not to mention billboards strewn every three miles across a good chunk of the American interstate system. And now, decades later, some might say the show is the reason the town of Dusty exists. It’s the reason people refer to it as, “America’s Last True Corral.” It’s the reason there are souvenir shops called “trading posts” and a western apparel superstore and a putt-putt course with fake antelope skulls on the greens and a wax museum and a riding stable and a Holiday Inn with a pool and a slew of restaurants serving burgers made of questionable-grade beef. 

It probably won’t surprise you to know Hank Barton is also the Mayor of Dusty. 

A lot of folks are grateful to Hank. A lot of folks consider him a local saint. A lot of folks wouldn’t be where they are without his vision. In short, he means everything to this town. And as Mayor, patron saint and town visionary, he has one more thing to check off his to-do list.

“Marcy, where are my dang truck keys?” Hank plops a hand on top of his thick, white hair, smoothing down one crop near the back that insists on defying gravity.

“Hank, for the hundredth time, they’re in your coat pocket!”

“No, they ain’t! I checked there!” The stubborn clump obeys for exactly three seconds before springing back up.

“Well, check again. This time, look in the other pocket…you old fool.”

“Dangit, Marcy…I ain’t no…,” Hank’s voice trails off.

“Told ya!”

Hank grumbles something about finding new help. “Marcy, I’m goin’ over to talk to Cow Pie.” He affixes his cowboy hat to his head and opens the door. “Oh, there might be a guy calling me back about a new sign. If he calls, tell him to call my cell phone.” 

“Why you goin’ to talk to Cow Pie? That yahoo is about as useful as a broken fence post.”

“I got something I gotta square with him. Once and for all.”

“It’s ‘bout time…tell him to pack up that donkey show of his and clear out. You’d-a thought he’d learnt that by now.”

“After today, it’ll all be settled.” 

There’s only one problem. Hank never makes it to his destination. He never has the conversation with Cow Pie that needs to be had. 

This is an issue.

###

There is another Wild West show in Dusty. It’s called Piercy’s Phenomenal Old West Ponderosa Review. The proprietor is a man whose given name is Conway Piercy. Everyone knows him as Cow Pie though.

Cow Pie came to Dusty fifteen years ago with his sights set on taking a bite off of Hank’s jerky. He bought a piece of land, invested in a nice, new arena with plenty of places for people to plop their rumps, and opened, to very little fanfare, a competing show. As you might imagine, the idea of somebody having the stones to go up against a local legend like Hank Barton went over about as well as cattle crap on the middle of a white carpet. 

You might be able to figure out how he got his nickname.

As the years passed, Cow Pie tried everything to lure customers to his end of town: a concession stand selling bison bites and rattlesnake nuggets, a souvenir shop with knock-off Stetsons and enormous belt buckles, even prairie dog races. Nothing tipped the scales. Nothing got the turnstiles spinning. Nothing got Piercy’s Phenomenal Old West Ponderosa Review off the “Other Attractions” page in the travel guides. Cow Pie, relegated to a listing after the Dusty Rock Shop, accepted his station in life and tried to make ends meet. 

But as money dwindles and bankruptcy creeps ever closer, he decides something needs to happen. Something drastic.

###

“Sheriff Ridgefield here.”

“Hey Sheriff, it’s Jace. I’m out on Highway 19. Gotta call about a car in the ditch. I think you outta come out here.”

“Jace, I just opened me up a Mr. Pibb, and I’m only one bite into this hot roast beef sandwich. Tell me what’s so damned important that you need a Sheriff out there for a car in a dang ditch. I ain’t a tow truck company, you know.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt lunch, sir. It’s just that…well…it’s kinda… not right…”

“What do you mean, ‘not right?’”

“Well, Sheriff…most cars we find in the ditch don’t…ummm…ummm…”

“Don’t what, boy? Spit it out…this sandwich is getting cold!”

“M-m-most cars we find in a ditch don’t have a dead Hank Barton in them.”

The roast beef sandwich gets cold.

###

People talk about the speed in which information provided by a fine invention like the internet travels. In no time at all, you can get your hands on how many runners on are base in the bottom of the fourth inning of a ballgame across the country, or the whereabouts of a train that left Laramie two hours ago, or if a fella attempting to set a world record for the most cheeseballs stuffed into his mouth at one time was successful. But it can hardly hold a candle to the speed in which news flies in a small town. 

Before an eye is blinked, the entire town of Dusty knows of Hank’s demise. And the entire town of Dusty is subsequently buckled over, collectively gasping for air, wondering why they were socked in the gut without warning. Their founder, their visionary, their patron saint, their leader: he’s gone. To all, Officer Jace’s proclamation is profoundly on the mark – it just isn’t right. 

That is, to all except one.

###

So what does the guy who’s perpetually been number two do when number one – his competition, his antagonist, the man he’s has his sights set on – is officially out of the picture? For starters, that guy pours himself a double, opting for the good bottle of bourbon whisky, rather than the Old Crow he saves for the crew. He rifles it down his windpipe, wincing for a moment, before pouring himself another. Then that guy buys a billboard right across the highway from Hickory Hank’s shuttered extravaganza. It reads: “THE SHOW MUST GO ON,” along with directions to Piercy’s Phenomenal Old West Ponderosa Review. Then that guy does something he hasn’t done in many sunrises – he goes to work early. That’s what people do when their time has finally arrived.

###

Hank Barton takes up residence in a hole in the ground, and the town is in mourning. Flags are lowered to half-mast. Shops close out of respect. A black veil floats overhead, like a storm cloud, blanketing the town in melancholy. 

As they head back from the boneyard, somberness riding shotgun alongside each and every attendee, they take note of a billboard being erected. 

Hackles are raised.

###

Now, when a man’s been second best for as long as Cow Pie has, he eventually starts to believe it. And when he starts to believe it, he starts to act a certain way. And when a man acts a certain way, people come to their own conclusions about that man’s place in this world. A wiser man might invoke notions of self-fulfilling prophesies and whatnot. But this is a story about a Wild West show and that seems a bit heady of a notion for a someone who’s named after a pile of bovine dung. So we’ll just say, Cow Pie’s always been second fiddle, and he’s tended to live down to that status with some proficiency. That’s why you might see Cow Pie walking the streets with his head down. You might go see his show, one where there are several mistakes in every performance. You might talk with him, only to hear a guy stammer and not look you straight in the eye. He wears his inferior stature out in the open, as if it was a neon 10-gallon hat.

But now, he’s staring down the barrel of being the only game in town. It’s what he’s always wanted – what he’s always dreamed of. It’s what he’s plotted to achieve, one way or another. He should be standing on the shoulders of that emotion called confidence, acting 50-feet tall and shaking hands like his fist was made out of shiny iron. Yet, despite his change of fortune, he can’t help but feel like a kid who’s swimming in a pond that’s too deep for his own good. The pancake-sweats under his arms attest to that.

“Cow Pie…perhaps I should get an umbrella for your armpits…it seems to be raining under your shirt.” Lena is the only assistant in the world willing to work for the wages Cow Pie can afford. And she is living, breathing proof that you only get what you pay for. Lena is also four-times divorced, a lover of alimony checks and 100% lacking a filter. That may just be the reason that a quartet of ex-husbands only make an appearance in her life as signatures at the bottom of a monthly check rather than in the other half of the bed, keeping it warm. 

“Gosh darnit…get the hair dryer, will ya?” Cow Pie shouts.

“No, that’s not something I want to do.” Lena leafs through a People Magazine.

“Please, Lena. I’m on in four minutes!”

“Fine, but I want lunch tomorrow.” Lena strolls off, without a scrap of haste in her stride, and returns with a travel size Conair. Cow Pie throw his arms up in the air as if surrendering. “Dry ‘em!”

“No. That’s gross. And I’ll sue you if you make me do it. You know I got a good lawyer.”

“I don’t have time to take the shirt off! So do it now…or no lunch!”

Lena rumples up her face, turns on the hair dryer and points it at his pits…from eight feet away. She refuses to get closer.

“Oh, forget it!” Cow Pie hollers. He proceeds to rub dirt on his pits. A dirty cowboy is better than a nervous cowboy in his estimation.

“Why are you so nervous anyway?”

“I don’t know. It’s just…something’s different now.” Cow Pie rubs the back of his head with a gloved hand.

“Something is different – there are more people in the stands to make a fool of yourself in front of.”

“It’s not just that. It’s…I’m finally getting my chance. And for some reason, I feel like a…like a…fraud.”

“Maybe because you’re putting on a pretend cowboy show.”

“It’s called entertainment, Lena!” Cow Pie peeks through the curtain at the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. “It’s like…I didn’t earn this. Like…there’s someone else who’s more qualified to do this, and I’m stealing their place. Like…the only reason they’re here…,” Cow Pie nods toward the full arena. “…is because Hank died.”

“That is the only reason they’re here. But you know what? Their money was good enough to follow ‘em, and it doesn’t care why it’s here.”

“I just thought this would be such a grand day, you know? I’ve pictured it in my mind for so long. But now, I just keep thinking they’re expectin’ Hank to walk out there. How can I live up to that?”

“You can’t. Truth is, you can’t even live up to the hype of that freaky small horse they got on display at Hickory Hank’s. Now that’s entertainment.”

“Thanks.”

“Cow Pie, you can’t be a Hank. You can’t be a guy who was mayor and founder and beloved town grandpa. You can’t be a legend in this town. But you know what you can be? You can be a Cow Pie.”

“Great…”Cow Pie, with dank pits, moseys out into the arena and puts on a pretend cowboy show.

###

To the rest of the town, the fact that tourists still appear is downright detestable. How could they? Don’t they know what’s happened? Don’t they have a bit of sense to them, for crying out loud? The folks here wonder, while looking up at a sky that seems blacker than hot tar at midnight, how anyone could possibly think about being entertained at a time like this? With a sky this dark? Yet, they still show up. Because even though it seems unfathomable, they’re looking up at a different sky. It’s one of those cruel, “the world keeps moving” truths that has a way of further crushing a heart when it’s at its most fragile. 

But, in a tough-love sort of way, it’s all part of the healing process.

Unless you’re a town that notices that somebody is monetarily benefiting from the reason the sky is so black. Then the hackles pop up even more, along with a few questions.

###

“Hey Cow Pie. Got a minute?” Sheriff Ridgefield pays a visit to Cow Pie. 

Cow Pie is sweeping the stands after his show. “I suppose.” 

“Cow Pie, you know how this town adored Hank Barton, right?”

“Yep.”

“All a’ Dusty was at the funeral. The whole town shut down.”

“I saw.”

“All except you.” The Sheriff crosses his arms over chest.

“Yeah, well, circumstances being what they are, I’m sure you can understand why.” Cow Pie gestures around to an arena in need of some TLC.

“Right. Did the circumstances require you puttin’ up a billboard right across the highway, the very day he was buried?”

Cow Pie stops pushing the broom. “No disrespect was meant. I honestly didn’t know they’d put it up on the day Hank was laid to rest. Plus, this town was built on a Wild West show. People come for it. I was just trying to keep it going. Trying to help the town.”

“Now that you seem to have cornered the Wild West show market, that is.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“A car comes around Big Bum Muck Bend, the only place in this county you can’t see a hundred miles in front of you, only to find a boulder in the middle of the highway, for no good reason. He flies off the road and into a ditch with such speed that he ends up dead. Another man suddenly sees his fortunes reversed. Curious, don’t you think?”

“Are you accusing me of having something to do with Hank’s death?”

“Just so you know – Hank’s secretary, Marcy, said he was on his way here, to talk to you that day. Said the last thing out of his mouth was, ‘I got something to square with him, once and for all.’ Did you know Hank was headed this way?”

“Now how would I know that?”

“He never called you or said he was stopping by?”

“Nope.”

“You have no idea what he was planning on settling with you?”

“Nope.”

“If you could wager a guess, what do you think it was going to be about?”

“Sheriff, I can’t tell you what was going through another man’s head. Maybe he wanted to come laugh at me right to my face. Maybe he wanted to steal the two paying customers I get each day. Or maybe he wanted to have some iced tea and sit around shooting the shit like two old bittys.”

The Sheriff remains silent. For a good amount of time. Cow Pie also remains silent. For an equal amount of time. The two stare at one another, each man knowing something the other doesn’t. And neither man is willing to offer it up.

###

Despite Cow Pie’s inner struggles, attendance grows. The tourists who come in search of Hickory Hank’s show successfully migrate over to Piercy’s. Cow Pie is able to hire three new hands. There is also some talk of adding an evening performance to accommodate the hefty crowds.   

For the first time, Cow Pie isn’t cringing when he opens the ledger. And for the first time, Cow Pie can afford to eat a meal that doesn’t originate in a can. He goes to the Bison Buffet & Bar, or the Triple B as locals call it. He takes Lena.

Lena gets out of the car and glares at Cow Pie. “I thought you said you were taking me for a good lunch?”

“What’s wrong with the Triple B?”

“I like food that tastes like food.” 

The Triple B is not crowded at this time of day. Only a handful of tables are occupied. Cow Pie and Lena set themselves down near the front windows. The server hustles over and informs them they can’t sit there. She ushers them to a different table – a small, dirty, wobbly one next to the bathroom. When Cow Pie inquires if they can sit elsewhere, she matter-of-factly tells him no. 

Thirty minutes pass, and the server does not return with their drinks. When she finally delivers them, they are watered-down short pours. To complete their experience, their food arrives cold. And Cow Pie finds a tissue in his mashed potatoes. There is evidence to suggest it’s a used tissue.

It’s clear they’re about as welcome at the Triple B as a rattlesnake sunbathing in a shoe. It won’t be the only establishment where they’ll receive such treatment. In fact, that kind of sparkling customer service will be extended to Cow Pie at all the establishments in Dusty. That’s how they treat people who disrespect the soul of the town.

Plus, they’ll burn down his billboard.

###

Cow Pie pays a visit to Sheriff Ridgefield. He comes in hot as a pistol.

“You thinkin’ of doing your job and finding the guys who burned down my billboard, Sheriff?”

“We’re awful busy, Cow Pie. And we don’t usually send out uniformed officers to look for someone who had a little campfire in the wrong place.” Sheriff Ridgefield leans back in his chair.

“Campfire? You mean arson?”

“Oh, that’s a little over the top, now, don’t you think? It was probably just a little ol’ cigarette butt tossed out a car window. Unfortunate really, but these things happen.”

“Okay…then how ‘bout the buckshot holes that been appearing in my tent? How about the saddles that got stolen? How about the tires on my truck that got slashed? You gonna do anything about that?”

“File a report. We’ll give it due attention.”

“Sheriff, this town counts on a Wild West show. That’s the only reason people drive across a desert. You and I both know they ain’t here for the overpriced ice cream at The Tumbleweed Creamery. I would think you’d be more concerned with protecting the lifeline of Dusty, rather than throwing shade over a bunch of deviants and outlaws.”

“Cow Pie, I’ve been here in Dusty since the day my momma’s water broke. I got a pretty good idea of what I should be concerned with protecting.”

Steam rolls out of Cow Pie’s ear holes. And boiling water follows out of his mouth. “This town’s never given two shits about me! For all them years. No matter what I did to try to fit in, you never extended a hand. But at least, up until now, y’all just ignored me. Made me feel like an outcast. I’ll take that over being a target.” Cow Pie paces in front of the sheriff’s desk like a caged mountain lion hopped up on espresso. “You know what…this whole thing is dirty. And you’re dirty along with it. I’m callin’ it what it is…it’s dirty.”

“Speaking of calls, I meant to ask you something the other day. I happened to check Hank’s phone records.” 

Cow Pie stops pacing.

“Turns out, you called Hank the morning he died. What did you two talk about?”

Cow Pie’s eyes drop down to his boot tips. “Ummmm…show stuff, best I can recall.”

“Show stuff, you say? What kinda show stuff?”

“Oh, I was just askin’ about some horse feed. Supplements. That sort a’ thing.”

“I see. And did you ask him to drop off some horse feed? Supplements? That sort a’ thing?”

“No.”

“Right…why didn’t you mention this the other day when I stopped by?”

Cow Pie shrugs. “You didn’t ask.”

“Let me see if I got this straight,” the Sheriff continues. “You talked to him that very morning, less than hour before his truck goes careening off the highway, and you have no clue why he was stopping by?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. No, I don’t know why he was coming over. And a phone call doesn’t make me guilty of anything.”

“No.” The Sheriff leans forward. “But maybe you said something to get him all riled up. Or maybe you lured him over to your place under false pretenses. And maybe if you knew he was heading in your direction, you maybe thought you’d roll a big damn rock in just the perfect spot where it can’t be seen until you’re about to kiss it. I don’t know. But I do know something just don’t add up. And you can see why I might be asking these questions.”

“You know what I see? I see a town that just wants to point a finger at somebody. I see a rumor being gossiped about at the diner, then becoming fact when it gets talked about by people like you. And I can see a town full of bullies trying to push me out, because they got no other way to cope with Hank’s passing. That’s what I see.”

The Sheriff leans back again. “That’s a real touching speech. Sure is. But it don’t change anything. We’ll be talking again soon.” 

Cow Pie heads to the door. After two steps, he pauses and turns back to the Sheriff. “I’m not trying to replace Hank.”

“That’s not what it looks like from where I’m sittin.’”

###

Cow Pie wonders if he’s done the right things. Maybe he shouldn’t have made that call. Maybe he shouldn’t have done all the things he did after that call. Maybe he shouldn’t have put up that billboard. Maybe he should have given the town some time. 

Maybe he should have gone to that funeral. 

He couldn’t though. He just couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to be there. After all, that’s what happens when someone carries the weight of guilt on the shoulders of their pearl snap shirt. That’s what happens when a man knows he’s responsible for another man’s death. 

So, to say Cow Pie’s head isn’t in the right place is an understatement. It’s stuck in a manure pile of self-doubt and anger and regret when it clearly should be atop his neck. That’s probably why he delivers the worst performance of his life. Cow Pie can’t seem to ride or lasso or shoot to save his life. Paying customers storm out in the middle of the show after they’ve worn themselves out booing. Fellow performers stare at each in confusion and disbelief. It happens again the next day. And the day after that.

Lena notices the demons that are suddenly packed in Cow Pie’s saddlebag. She sees them clear as day. Because Lena knows a thing or two about men who don’t live up to expectations…men who can’t live up to expectations. And she’s walked out on every one of them. Today will be no different. Cow Pie is blindsided by the news. 

“Why? Why would you leave now? The show’s busier than ever.”

“It’s just time.”

Cow Pie searches for the whys. “It’s not about the hair dryer thing, is it?”

“No. And yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“Cow Pie, you got what you wanted. You got the spotlight. And it’s making you miserable…and sweaty. And a guy who finally corrals his dream and is miserable, well, that’s a guy who will always be miserable.” Lena’s gaze meets Cow Pie’s. “You just can’t seem to get past this Hank thing…that you’re not Hank and that you’re not good enough. Well, if you can’t get past it, nobody else will either!”

Cow Pie doesn’t respond. Even if he wanted to defend himself, it would be a lie. 

“Maybe you need to start fresh somewhere. Somewhere there wasn’t ever a Hank Barton. And somewhere there wasn’t ever a Cow Pie either. Maybe you need to find that place where there’s a Conway Piercy.” Lena gives Cow Pie a kiss on the cheek before departing, with her People Magazine.

Minus a semi-useless assistant, Cow Pie finds himself with a choice: stick it out, deal with the wrath of the locals and continue to stomach the guilt. Or move on. Neither seems real appealing. One leads to him standing in harm’s way, enduring more hate, living in the shadow of a dead man. Another leads to losing the dream he finally met face-to-face, watching the cash cow jump the fence and run away, and being the reason the whole town of Dusty folds. After all, no show likely means no tourists. And no tourists mean there’s a well that’s about to go dry. Back to being a Sinclair station with a postcard view. 

Cow Pie realizes that, somehow, the fate of the town sits on the shoulders of the guy they hate the most.

###

Cow Pie is forced to cancel his show the next day. The night prior, someone tears down the gate to his stable, allowing his horses to dart off. Cow Pie and the staff spend the day retrieving them from the next county.

Cow Pie doesn’t bother informing the Sheriff of the latest assault. He instead opts to spend nights standing guard over his operation, along with the company of a Sharps rifle.  

And after his welcome sign gets shot to pieces one night, Cow Pie decides he’s had just about enough. It’s time for him to come clean.

###

Sheriff Ridgefield is leaning as far forward as his desk will allow, considering the size of his ample midsection. His backside is utilizing only a couple inches of the front of his chair, concentrating all his weigh on the smallest of areas. The fact that it hasn’t given out is a testament to modern-day chair engineering. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I do. Because it’s the truth.” Cow Pie is seated opposite, closer than he normally would care to be to a Sheriff’s desk. Today, it doesn’t bother him. 

“Anything or anyone back you up on this?”

“I suspect not. The only one who could corroborate is now planted in the cemetery. But I swear, everything I told you is on the level.”

The Sheriff cocks his head. “Why didn’t you just tell me all of this from the get-go?” He sits back in his chair, to the extreme relief of the chair.

“I thought through every which way this coulda gone, and I figured I was screwed if I said something and screwed if I didn’t. It was just easier to say nothing.”

The Sheriff considers that. “Always is.” He stands, walks across the office and pours himself a cup of something that used to be coffee. “One dollar, huh?”

“Yessir. One dollar.”

“Even if this fable of yours is true, Cow Pie, which I highly doubt, what did you think would happen? That I’d just stroll over and tell everyone, ‘no, Cow Pie didn’t do anything. And guess what? He’s the new mayor.’”

“No, but you might try to help me. You might try to stop the town from being hell bent on sinking my show.”

“Look, this town doesn’t take to change to easily. Never has. And I think you know that. And when it comes to Hank, well, the town belonged to him, and he belonged to the town. Nothing I say will ever change that.”

“So you’re gonna let Dusty die right along with Hank?”

“A little taste of success and suddenly, you think yourself to be awful important.”

Cow Pie is finished saying what he needs to say. He rises from his chair and leaves the police station. He knows before he gets back home, the town will be spreading the story. The parts they want to hear anyway. He knows he needs to do something drastic. Again.

###

At the Triple B, tourists scarf down bison chili like it was Rocky Mountain caviar. Bartenders pour beers for weary parents dreaming of vacations that don’t include irascible little ones. Servers, exaggerating their cowpoke accents, make out good on tips. But unlike most nights, there’s something unpleasant blowing in through the open windows. It’s a rancid gust that wafts in, in the form of a rumor, that the beloved Hank Barton offered to sell his show to the vile Cow Pie. For the ridiculous sum of one American dollar. Most of the folks aren’t buying it. They say it’s a lie Cow Pie fabricated to cover up the fact that he had something to do with Hank’s accident. Probably rolled that boulder onto the highway. After all, Hank would never sell his show. Hank loved this town. Hank had standards. 

Now, they’re more motivated than ever to show Cow Pie what they thought of him. 

Sure, there was more to the story, parts that were conveniently ignored. They overlooked the fact that Cow Pie had indeed called Hank that day, not for horse feed advice. But certainly not for anything dastardly. He called offering to sell his show’s assets to Hank. After all, with no customers, the bills weren’t getting paid. He’d put out the white flag. Surrendered. Enough was enough. But something happened that Cow Pie couldn’t possibly imagine happening: Hank turned him down. 

Then offered to sell his show to Cow Pie.

Cow Pie laughed. For starters, he couldn’t afford Hank’s holdings in the show…he couldn’t even afford to wash his clothes at the laundromat with regularity. But Hank said he was done with the business. It was his time to step aside. He’d made more money than he could ever spend. And the way the town admired him, he’d never have to buy himself a beer as long as he lived anyway.

Further, he said he’d seen Cow Pie’s show. Said it was downright good. And, beyond that, the town needed a show. Without it, Dusty was just an exit ramp, some big hills and cheap souvenirs. Hank recognized the show was what kept the town alive…it was the heart of Dusty, pumping blood to all the other organs. So, Hank did something selfless. He said he’d sell it to Cow Pie for one dollar – along with a promise to keep the show going as best he could. To keep the town going as best he could.

Cow Pie was speechless. And, after some convincing from Hank, Cow Pie was agreeable. So Hank was heading over to start drawing up the papers. By next tourist season, there’d be a new Hickory Hank, so to speak. And the original Hickory Hank would finally get a well-earned respite, sitting brookside snagging a few trout. 

But then fate decided to show up to the party and lift its leg in the liquor bottles. An old man not paying attention to how fast he was going, farting around with his cell phone. A curve. A rockslide. A sudden swerve. That’ll do the trick of messing everything up. 

Those are the parts of the story that didn’t get talked about. Not that it would have made a difference. Like Cow Pie said, he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. Say something, and they’d think he was just trying to scheme his way into owning Hank’s show. Say nothing, and that would arouse the suspicions of everyone in town. So he said nothing. He just let a billboard across from Hickory Hank’s do all the talking he needed to do. The Show Must Go On.

But the locals, pitchforks and torches in hand, disagree.

###

Sheriff Ridgefield parks his cruiser outside Piercy’s Phenomenal Old West Ponderosa Review. What’s left of it anyway. The tent is packed up. The bleachers are disassembled. The animals are loaded and ready to go. All that’s left is the leaving. 

Cow Pie has his sights set on a town called Somewhere Else. Or even the neighboring outpost called Anywhere Else. He’s saved up enough money from the last few months to invest in some land and a load of highway advertising. Cow Pie thinks, maybe someday he’ll likewise look back at a town that worships him in the same way Dusty worships Hank Barton. He can only hope.

Sheriff needs to have one more word before Cow Pie turns his taillights to Dusty. He ambles over as Cow Pie escorts the last of the horses into the trailer.

“There’s something you ought to know, Cow Pie.”

“What’s that, Sheriff?”

“I told you a while back that I pulled Hank’s phone records.”

“I sure do remember. That’s how you knew about our little conversation.”

“Yeah, but there was another call. Hank was on the phone right before he lost control of his truck.”

“He was?”

“Yep. I thought you’d like to know who he was talking to and what he was talking about.” Sheriff hands Cow Pie a piece of paper. “He was talking with Dale Ripford over at Dale’s Signs.” 

“I know Dale. He helped me with my billboard. The one that’s currently a pile of ash.” 

“Yeah…” The Sheriff looks off into the distance.

Cow Pie scans the sheet of paper. It’s a hand-written note for a new order. For a sign to go up. Right at the Dusty city limits line. Ordered by Hank.

THE LEGENDARY HICKORY HANK’S WILD WEST BONANZA EXTRAVAGANZA WELCOMES NEW OWNER – CONWAY PIERCY

“After Hank died, Dale put that aside.” The Sheriff toed the dirt in front of him. “This town owes you an apology.”

“Yeah. Probably for some other stuff too.”

“I can talk to the folks here, ya know. Maybe we can work something out where you stick around and keep ol’ Hank’s show goin’. Where you keep ol’ Hank’s town goin’. I know now it’s what he wanted.” 

Conway Piercy climbs into the cab of his truck. He turns the key in the ignition. It rumbles to life, belching diesel fumes out the back. He looks around, taking in the splendor of the view. The mountains bulging up and poking out of a valley that’s dusted in hues of orange and red. The familiarity of a town he’s called home for the last fifteen years. Or, more precisely, the town that a guy named Cow Pie called home for the last fifteen years.

“I sure would like that,” he begins, grabbing a hold of the shift handle. “But, I think y’all might need a little lesson on what it’s like to be second fiddle.”

SECOND FIDDLES

A Short Story by Tom Witkowski

9 Circles Fiction

Photo Credit: Pixabay

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