Consarn it, I had enough of the Valley of a Thousand Deaths and its mean critters….

I sent a message to Pecos Bill through an Injun guide, Buffalo Kid Who Dances with Sun, telling him of his cousin’s encounter with a lead lunch.

Back came the reply: I loved him, not as a bandido, but as a MAN.

So long, pardner, been good to know you…..

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zPaSCw487aE

THE END.

The drums are speaking. Not in Spanish either, pardner.

There are twenty Injun types of lingo in Mexico.

Sure, at times you would think you were plumb in the middle of a Spanish hacienda, hombre, thanks to Hernan Cortes who came to America in 1518, but there are more than 150 Injun dialects south of the border.

But the Injun languages live on, cowboy.

The Injuns have moved with the times and have the Internet, but they still pass on messages by drum and fire smoke, and by message stick.

What are the drums saying?

A Bletchley Cowboy course has enabled me to understand Injun and translate the drum message:

I WORRIED BOUT LORD GINGE. YO SEND HIM BACK OR WE SPIN OVER AND GET HIM BACK, YESIRREEBOBTRUEDAT. YOURS TROOLY CHIEF MONK.

La Morta Vincit Omnes, amigos- Death Conquers All, even El Guapo, Terror South of the Border.

Me have plenty questionnes, senors. What is my full name? Where did I go to school, amigos? Before I became a Bad Hombre did I want to be a priest, a holy father in that little stone chapel surrounded by cactus?

Why do I not shave? Why does everybody in my gang not shave?

There are no answers, only questionnes, amigo, in la vita.

I know one thing, comancheros, that I know nothing about myself. I am only padding. Padding, senors! PADDING.

If there is a rewrite, amigos, I might get a chance to shoot the strangero, El Gingero, in the back, dry-gulching him in the best tradizione of Mexico.

Otherwise, senors and senoritas, I will always be…PADDING….

I could have been given a tequila, but I would only be filling. Par examplero, what was the name of my bride who did not need foreplay? No importanto, si? Per que?

No one should be padding…….

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JxzJAF1BxP4

*Ed’s note: Don’t know whether El Gingero is sendin’ telegrams, is plum sun stroked, is takin’ too much tequila or has gone all postmodern on us. Fullstop.

The sun beat down like hot honey on the strip of bare earth the town called a street.

At its end was El Guapo, who did not look like the bridegroom of the year.

His pants were shiny and greasy, and his black hat was frayed. His nails were dirty, and teeth yellowed as they formed a nasty grin and he kicked a man in a wheelchair.

No criplos here, he snarled.

His fired a shot that cracked the bell of San Eustachia’s church, and the good sisters ran screaming from the building.

Peering through the batwing doors of the tavern, the thought came to me again: Why do Mexican bandidos never shave? Are they hoping to make it to Hollywood?

El Guapo spurred his horse to overtake the Mother Superior.

Mother, do you teach los ninos, the children, about foreplay?

No, senor, we are good Catholics here.

Good. I do not believe in foreplay.

El Guapo showed his yellow teeth again, twirling his six shooter.

Are there any strangeros here?

Sir, one strangero, the hombre who calls himself El Gingero.

THEN I AM ARE CALLING OUT THIS SON OF A PIG!

El Guapo took a swill from his brandy flask:

EL GINGERO. I AM A-CALLIN’ YOU OUT. YOU SON OF A PUTANA.

I checked my six shooter.

Five bullets.

One of them had El Guapo’s name on it.

He did not stand a chance.

I shot him through the right eye without leaving the tavern.

No need for the ‘quick draw’ here.

El Guapo’s next appointment: Boot Hill.

What’ll it be, senor strangero?

Your best pantry juice ain’t good enough for El Gingero. Gimme a tequila, fast-like, unless you want a wooden overcoat.

Certo, senor. Pronto, senor Strangero.

Make it snappy then, pilgrim.

Say, would you happen to know an old comanchero, Pecos Bill?

Of course, Senor Strangero.

El Gingero is the moniker, pilgrim. El Gingero. Now whee’s that Pecos Bill?

Senor Gozales, Pecos Bll is in a ranchero, a hideout in mountains. Go there to the Valley of Mille Muertes, the place of a Thousand Deaths and ask for the senor.

How come they call him Pecos?

Pecos is the only place, senor, where he ain’t killed nobody yet.

Like Gene Autry, I am drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweed………

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MMBMkm184pU&feature=related

As a singing cowboy I know there are three things: singing, thinking and feeling…..

When I sing to Pinto, my painted pony, on the trail, it starts me thinking. Is there a rattler near my boot, is there a rifle behind that rock?

When it comes to gunslinging, there’s no feeling at all. We just know that only one of us is going to come away smelling like roses.

Draw! Lightning fast. The hand whips out, the finger pulls. Bang! The man in black hits the white dust while old men and senoritas cower in the church or taverna. He’s headed for Boot Hill.

That’s the way it is, pardner, and the way it will always be on the Range……..

I took a swig of my last water and squinted through the sun and dust.

I sure would have like to spend more time with those senoritas.

But a cowboy has to do what a cowboy has to do.

When a gaucho comanchero calls you have to come.

An arrow sped past me.

I realised then that I was in Injun country.

The gauchos are part Indian, and many of the old ways have not disappeared…

Zip!!!!

Another arrow.

Suddenly I was surrounded by Injuns.

I kept my drawing arm well away from my holster.

You got me, I said.

How?

And How you get here, White Man Who Dances with White She Devil Senoritas?

On my piebald cayuse.

Go in peace, then, white man. We like your taste. Horse is Fashion Statement.

A Mexican matron was briefing a senorita before her wedding to the bandido, El Guapo.

Matron: Do you know anything about foreplay?

Senorita: No.

Matron: Good. Neither does El Guapo.

There was a picture of the groom surrounded by desert flowers.

Why, I thought again, do none of the bandidos ever shave?

Or do the senoritas appreciate a bit of bristle?

Dancing barefoot and raising dust around the campfire were Rosita, Dorita and Chiquita.

What’s your name, El Strangero?

You can call me Fernando – just don’t call me late for the polenta and beans.

The senoritas giggled, ceased their dancing and sat in a circle making hats from bananas, chilis and pineapples.

It was a pleasant respite under the stars….

A cowboy, however, has to be very careful if he does not want to be dry gulched……