Kid Kenny: Mountain High

A stiff breeze almost knocked my hat right off, and a frosty tumble-weed rolled past my boots. I lit one off my heel and watched two blonde gals in bonnets and dresses walk by on their way to the congregation. "Yup," I thought, "I'm in Salt Lake." I chuckled to myself as I pulled the collar of my duster up over my neck, it bein' cold in these parts. By and by the wagon pulled up, and not a moment too soon. I'd come in from the coast, and I's beginnin' to think my one-shooter was gonna snap off and fall out the cuff of my dungarees.

Now, I only take to pleasant surprises; any other kind's likely to get me reachin' for my pistol. So I's relieved to see my own brother Jack the Prospector drawin' the reins when the wagon came into view. 'Course he'd come with Papa Joe Hellrung, a caballero from my wild days, and as I greeted them, I kept one hand on the butt of my Smith 'n Wesson, just in case he hadn't forgotten about that incident in Tulsa. Happily he had. I breathed a sigh of relief. It seems he'd moved to Atlanta and set up a law practice. He'd taken favorin' straw hats and drinkin' mint juleps and such. He fixed me one of them juleps, which warmed me up somethin' fierce. He'd even quit whorin'.

"I even quit whorin', Kid Kenny," he said as he crushed a handful of mint leaves, "I'm on the other side of the law now." I's happy to hear it; there never was a more frightful sight than ol' Papa Joe cut loose at a bordello.

We drove hard through the pass and made it up to Park City around midnight. We met up with the other dudes at the saloon, where they'd been drinkin' and carrousin'. Now this was about the most pow'ful collection of cowpokes and scofflaws I'd seen since I came west. One of 'em, Matt "Slim Pickens" Sims, 's wanted in eight states and untold territories on account of his depravity. He'd come down from the mountains, where he has a pack followers and wives. Another of 'em, Ted, had taken the journey by locomotive from New York City. You could tell by his bowler hat and pince-nez. We'd gathered to celebrate the coming nup'tials of our amigo, Tim.

When we all seen each other, the usual hollerin' and shootin' ensued: the kind of thing that drives the women-folk mad with passion. Then we got down to the business of drinkin'. I's flush, havin' just collected on a little job I did outside of Barstow, so I said to the barkeep:

"Hey, cactus ears!"

I love callin' barkeeps that. He ignored me, though, which put the bit in my teeth. I drew my pistol. "Barkeep, I don't want no trouble. But if my boys and I can't get a drink in this place, that pretty redhead over there'll be comin' back to camp with us, and she won't be darnin' our socks!"

"Not Louella, she's my best girl!" said cactus ears. "What'll it be?"

"Sixteen Seabreezes."



Now, some's are the kinds who, after a long night of drinking, see fit to strap planks to their boots and slide a mountain. Some's aren't, and that's me. So the next morning, still foggy-headed and butter-booted, myself an' a small posse drifted to the bar at the foot of the mountain for some grub and maybe a Seabreeze or two. It was a pleasant surprise to see Ol' Hogan entrenched with a sasparilla, readin' the morning papers. Now, Ol' Hogan is a man of many talents, but for my money, his strengths as a balladeer remain unsurpassed. After a couple a drinks, we clamored for a song.

"Ol' Hogan, sings us one!" shouted Jangly Joe DiBello.



Ol' Hogan ruffled his newspaper and adjusted his spectacles. He looked down at his spurs for a moment, then cocked his head and came out with:

'Twas on a day of winter's rush
I first did see the beast.
Through snow and ice and
Howl-ing winds and rain
To say the least.

O'er rock, o'er crag, o'er hill I climbed,
I risked it all that day.
For to my bride I would return.
Our hearts, they would be gay.

With fist and lance I slew
the beast, its blood I tasted, warm.
For raise the goat and eat the fruit,
I would of love's great farm.

For hours he regaled us as such, until the sun the went down, and it got as cold as a teet in Missoula.

By and by we mosied back to camp, where we found a couple a the dudes, Mike and Karim, rollin' some tobacco. "Roll me one a them, will ya?" I asked, lightin' a match off my boot.

"Sure," came the reply. "Think you'll like this tobacco, Kid Kenny."



I never did find out what kind it was, but things sure did get a mite slower and more comedic, directly. We dined on pork chops and swilled sasparillas until Steve, the groom's brother and organizer of the festivities made an announcement:

"Arright boys, better buck up. The entertainin' ladies is here."

We all whooped and hollered, until in walked three ladies who looked like they'd been ridden hard and put away wet, so to speak.

"Whores! Somebody say 'whores'?" exclaimed Papa Joe. Slim Pickens sharpened his knife. Ted adjusted his pince-nez.

"Now these ain't whores," shouted a voice. It belonged to a tall, tow-headed drink of water by the name of Lars. "What these is, is exotic dancin' ladies."

Dance they did, and exotically, at that. The groom, bein' a bashfull cuss, sought comfort from the warm muzzle of his horse and didn't quite take to the dancing, not that I can recall, anyhows. It seemed there's some sort of controversy regarding the exotic dancin' ladies, but I can't for the life of me.....I remember the crack of my own belt against my bare haunches, but that's a pretty normal occurrence for yours truly, and I could be gettin' confused. I set my tired bones down on the sofa and afore I knew it, blackness, like a prairie at night.

When I roused myself at daybreak, I found most of the gang'd runnoft. It's hard to stay in one place for too long when there's a price on your head; I know this as well as anyone. Those of us that remained drank some hot coffee and chuckled about the previous nights' drinkin' and carryin' on. By and by I collected myself to hit the road.

"Headin' back to the coast, Kid Kenny?" somebody'd asked.

"Well, I gotta get over the mountains first," I replied.