Hey, We're the Band

Traveling north in Bill's custom high-top luxury conversion Ford van, Catclaw Creek left the cultivated fields of Taylor County and ventured north into the rough pasture land of Cottle county (population 2,106). There between the North Wichita and the Pease rivers, we found the county seat - Paducah, Texas (population, 1,645). Salute! Apache lived here before the Comanche drove them out. In the 1870's, the army drove out the Comanche. Many a buffalo hunter crossed the Pease River in search of the great southern herd. Ranchers settled here in the 1880's and have stayed ever since.

Catclaw Creek had a mission. We would belt out our best renditions of cowboy favorites to the good people of Paducah that turned out for the stick-horse rodeo. Money raised by this event would go toward a much-needed park for the little cowboys and cowgirls to enjoy. Now, the stick horse rodeo was largely overshadowed by the ranch rodeo, which was held on the same weekend and drew cowboys from nearby ranches to compete for cash and prizes. These were not a bunch of team ropers in "gimme caps". These were working cowboys of the North Texas ranch country, the kind of men that kill rattlesnakes, break horses, and bulldog steers--and that's just before breakfast.

Now, we had tried to dress the part. Bill had even gone so far as to purchase a fine new hat from Target -- a hat that easily could have been used to display a striking floral display or a pineapple upside down cake. He had on his best Hawaiian shirt, the one with pink flamingos and girls in polka-dot bikinis. This lovely shirt was set off nicely by the rainbow-striped elastic suspenders he wore with pride. Bill was primed.

As we entered Paducah, we turned right at the county square and followed the signs to the rodeo grounds. We won't mention the detour we took trying to find our way around the Paducah metropolitan area. Pulling through the gate, we cruised the rodeo grounds amid the pickups trucks and gooseneck trailers looking for the Moffit Show Barn - the place where we were to play for the stick-horse rodeo. Bill rolled down the electric window of his custom high-top luxury conversion Ford van. The smell of barbequed brisket wafted in. Following the scent like a hound dog on the trail, Bill weaved deliberately through the goose-necked ensembles until he saw a bunch of cowboys huddled around a smoking converted Dempsey Dumpster barbeque pit. We saw Pioneer Hall and there it was; right next door; our destination - The Moffit Show Barn. Bill stopped the van. Herb, the most rusticated of the group, suggested we try to blend in and not do anything too conspicuous. Taylor, our wise old sage, agreed with Herb. We could see by the stack of beer cans that these cowboys cooks had been "working" all day long and probably would not take kindly to a bunch of city slickers busting in like they owned the place.

Bill released his foot from the brake. He drove, slowly at first, then, in a burst of adrenaline or maybe caffeine, Bill revved the motor and pulled up right next to the head cook, a six foot four cowboy who looked as if he had stepped out of a Charles Russel painting. Bill, leaning out the window of his custom van, in his flowerpot hat and Hawaiian shirt, leaned in close -- close enough to smell the mixture of Coors and Copenhagen on the cowboy's breath. In a cheery voice, Bill announced to all the cowboys, "Hey, we're the band!'

Note: The cowboy's response has been deleted for content.