The Last Radio Cowboy

A story, loosely based on Matthew Sixteen

by Bob Freye

The old pickup truck trailed a plume of dust along state road 47, all the way from Hanson’s Corners to Mayville. Most of the town had gathered on Main Street, either to watch the parade or to march in it. They had arrived early, because of the last of the great radio cowboys. Texas Tom Huckabee was coming to Mayville to marshal the parade and officially open the summer livestock fair. 

He was something of a legend among households that had only recently installed a television. They remembered the adventures that had kept them glued to the radio on Friday nights. Texas Tom Huckabee foiled robberies on trains and stagecoaches. He chased rustlers, broke wild broncos, and tamed the rough and rugged American west to make it safe for decent folks. 

It was becoming more difficult to find such heroes on the radio. The stations had given way to garish disc jockeys and up-tempo music. But here in Mayville, people were still partial to heroes. And when they heard that Texas Tom Huckabee might be free to make an appearance, they called the studio and booked him for the livestock fair. 

Then they sat back and imagined this day. It would be the best day in the history of Mayville. Texas Tom Huckabee would ride in on his famous horse, Buster, and lead the Mayville high school band down Main Street. Buster would prance in perfect time to the music, and Texas Tom would sit ramrod straight in the saddle, his sequined shirt glinting in the bright sun.

A long line of vehicles would follow the band, all filled with families representing the local businesses. They would follow the glitter of Texas Tom Huckabee’s sequined shirt, shading their eyes from the reflected glare. Every inch of the sidewalk would be filled with spectators, some from as far away as Sawgrass Meadow or Sandy Creek. Each of the local stores would see at least a 70 percent increase in their business, and the farmers would be sure to pull in a plentiful harvest, all because they had the last of the radio cowboys at the start of their parade.

It was going to be wonderful.

Wisps of dust rolled into town behind an old pickup truck that parked just off Main Street, near Clement Adkins’ Farm and Feed Store. A stocky man got out and banged his cowboy hat against the leg of his jeans, sending dust in all directions. He scrunched the hat back on his head and walked deliberately down Main Street toward the assembling parade. As he passed by the crowds that waited on the sidewalk, he stopped to talk with the kids and exchanged polite greetings with their parents.  

“Who is that?” Baird Langstrom asked, squinting at the man.

“Not from here,” Art Walen ventured.

“Here for the livestock sale, probably,” Clint Romer said.

Baird, Art, and Clint were the steering committee for this year’s livestock fair. Actually, they were the steering committee for everything that happened in Mayville. At the moment, they were standing at the front of the parade next to the bright new convertible from Ronny’s Friendly Automobile Sales and Service. Ronny had offered his shiniest new car to carry Texas Tom Huckabee down Main Street and out to the fairgrounds.

Of course, if Buster showed up, then the committee would get to ride in the new convertible. Texas Tom would ride his horse, and they would follow right behind in the car. That would be better, actually. The other option was to stand on the running boards of Bud Winston’s old jalopy.

They had to be flexible. There were still a few details that they hadn’t worked out. They wouldn’t get all their answers until their radio cowboy showed up.

They didn’t even know what he looked like. It was radio, you know. But most of them had drawn a mental picture for themselves, based on his voice and his stories and his reputation. He was tall, with a face that had been carved from stone, His eyes were blue steel, and he would command the crowd with just a glance. His boots would be black as night, his hat white as sugar. And in between, they imagined rhinestones, for some reason. Yes, they would know him a mile away.

“What was that?” Art asked.

He scrunched his face and turned an ear toward the crowd. The man from the beat-up truck was making his way past the people, shaking the occasional hand and sharing a pleasant word with as many as would listen.

He stooped down to talk with one of the Smith kids, and as he straightened up, he said in a soft voice, “Ride easy, buckaroo.”

Art turned white.

“That’s him!” he gasped.

“Who?” Clint asked.

“I know that voice! That’s what he says on every show!” Art’s voice faded to a dark whisper. “That’s Texas Tom Huckabee!”

The man was barely five-foot-six, and that included the heels of his boots. His clothing was respectable, but it was covered in road dust. One sleeve was marked with grease. His face was soft and slipped easily into a neighborly smile. His eyes were brown and sad, and there was not a suggestion of glitter to either his costume or his expression.  

They were muttering to each other when he finally walked up. The cowboy reached out a hand as he said hello, but the committee froze.

“And just who are you supposed to be?” Baird Langstrom asked, by way of greeting.

The cowboy pulled his arm back and settled his hands in his pockets.

“I hear you need a grand marshal for your parade,” he mentioned, quite matter-of-fact.

“We might be looking for someone,” Baird said, “but it would have to be someone special.”

He was thinking, not you.

“Don’t blame you.” The cowboy’s eyes surveyed the marching band that was slowly forming up behind the committee. “Looks like you have a pretty good group here.”

“Do you have any identification with you?” Clint suggested.

The cowboy looked at him and smiled.

“Yup.”

They waited, but he just stood there. No drivers license appeared in his hand. No letter from the committee, no proof of any kind.

Art didn’t plan to say anything, but the silence was making him nervous.

“Maybe you could do something.”

“Why?”

Art was befuddled, so Clint answered the cowboy’s question.

“To prove who you are.”

“I know who I am.” The cowboy’s eyes had a way of looking through a person. Clint was feeling decidedly uncomfortable.

But Baird was not so easily intimidated.

“You have to prove it to us,” he said, his voice betraying a rising indignation.

They stood for a moment, face to face, looking much like Desperado Jim and his gang of horse thieves, when they came to town to drive away the new school teacher, just after the big blizzard, when Buster had carried Texas Tom Huckabee through waist-deep snow to get medicine for the children. That episode had ended badly for Desperado Jim.

“Maybe you could show us something,” Art suggested. “I hear you are pretty good with a rope.”

“I don’t do tricks,” the cowboy said, with an apologetic smile.

“So you can’t even use a rope?” The anger in Baird’s voice was unmistakable.

“Oh, I’m pretty fair,” the cowboy admitted. “But I don’t do tricks. I do work.”

The distinction was not important to Baird Langstrom.

“I think someone may have made a mistake here,” he said. “We won’t be needing a marshal for our parade.”

He saw himself sitting in the back of Ronny’s new convertible, with the other members of the committee. They could certainly open the fair, and they would do as good a job as this dusty cowhand.

“That’s your choice,” the cowboy said.

He tipped his hat and turned to walk back down Main Street, past the people who had greeted him just moments before. The crowd found him surprisingly gracious, and he stopped to talk to as many as would smile in his direction or offer a cheerful hello.

When he got to the truck, a young boy stood at the front fender, waiting for him.

“They’re talking about you,” the boy said.

“What do they say?”

“Some say you look like Lanny Slade. He won the bronc riding championship for five years, But he’s dead.”

“Yeah?”

“Some say you look like Jeremiah Slater. He brought people out to these parts from Illinois, back before they had cars.”

“Is he dead, too?”

The cowboy reached into the bed of the pickup and took out a stiff coil of well-worn rope. He took the loop in one hand and spun it over his head a time or two, and then let it fly toward a post about twenty feet away. The loop settled easily over the top of the post, and before it could slide to the ground, it was pulled tight.

“I hear what everybody else is saying. But who do you think I am?”

Another flick of the wrist started a ripple from the cowboy’s hand through the length of the stiff rope. He relaxed the tension just as the ripple reached the post, and the loop skipped over the top of the post and flopped to the ground.

“You’re Texas Tom Huckabee!” The boy almost shouted the name.

The cowboy slowly reeled in the lariat, pulling it back into a tight coil in his hand.

“If you showed them that trick,” the boy said, “they’d believe you.”

“I don’t do tricks,” the cowboy explained patiently. “I do work. There’s a difference.”

He found a place for the rope in the back of his truck, tucked among fence posts, wire, a bag of tools, a jack, a saddle, and a flat tire.

“Besides, they know who I am. Best not to bring it up, I suppose. It will just make them angry, and there’s no reason for you to go through all that.” 

With his gear stowed in the back of the truck, the cowboy climbed into the drivers seat and started the engine. The truck coughed out a little cloud of dust, then the engine quickly settled into a smooth rumble. The boy stepped back as the truck eased out onto the road and sat for a moment with the engine idling.

The cowboy touched the brim of his hat politely and smiled.

“Ride easy, buckaroo,” he said.

Then Texas Tom Huckabee, the last of the radio cowboys, drove quietly out of Mayville, past the Sunset Motel, toward state road 47, leaving a trail of dust hanging in the air to mark his path.

 
##

A last word:

In Matthew 16, Jesus asked his disciples about the rumors they were hearing. Everybody had an opinion about who he might be. Maybe an old prophet, returned from the dead. Maybe a new prophet, with a bright future.

But only one answer mattered. You can read about it starting in verse 13. Not just a prophet. Not just an interesting person. He was the Messiah, the promised one, the Son of God.

So who is he to you? He came to be your savior. And that’s the only answer that matters.

  
[-] © 2007 by Bob Freye