The Ballad of Gus and Bessie…,
Gus McGraw was a cowboy. He lived alone. He rode alone. He danced in a purple tutu to opera. Some said, “You can’t do that Gus”. Gus proved them all wrong, but he did it – alone. He was a man of few words and even fewer thoughts. He rode the endless plains, herding cattle, dodging bullets, and living life one sunset at a time. He thought he would give almost anything just to have one person to talk to, but that all changed the day he heard a voice say:
“Gus, we need to talk.”
He nearly fell off his horse.
There, staring at him with big brown eyes, was Bessie—one of his cows.
“Did—did you just talk?” Gus sputtered, gripping the saddle horn like it might anchor him to reality.
“Yeah,” Bessie said, chewing cud casually. “And frankly, I got some concerns about where this whole ‘herding’ thing is going.”
And so began the strangest partnership the West had ever known. It’s still spoken about in hushed whispers throughout the badlands, mostly because very few believed it and even fewer spoke above a whisper in the badlands like there was a law against it, even though there really wasn’t.
As they rode together across the open range, Gus and Bessie debated some of the great questions of existence.
“Is life predetermined, or do we shape our own destiny?” Bessie pondered.
“Well, I can choose to shoot a fella, but I can’t choose whether he shoots back,” Gus reasoned. “So I reckon it’s both?”
“Fascinating.” Said Bessie in admiration.
Between these discussions, they had their fair share of trouble. Cattle rustlers came out of nowhere one night, thinking they were gonna make off with Gus’s herd.
“You fellas best ride on,” Gus warned in his best badlands whisper, aiming his revolver.
One rustler sneered. “Or what?”
Before Gus could answer, Bessie kicked a fence post into the rustler’s face.
“You heard the man,” she said.
The rustlers screamed and soon were arrested for public disturbance in the badlands
Bessie watched with satisfaction as they were led away.
Gus grinned. “I like you, Bessie.”
Another evening, as the sky turned gold, they were, for some reason, ambushed by an angry bear in blue-striped pajamas.
“Who the hell is that?” Gus asked, drawing his gun.
He was truly curious about the blue-striped pajamas. Not so much about why the bear had them, but what store sold blue-striped pajamas in size grizzly.
“Long story,” Bessie muttered as if that explained everything.
The bear held up a nearly empty bowl roared. “You stole my porridge!”
“I ain’t never seen your damn porridge!” Gus shouted, dodging a swipe of claws.
Bessie sighed. “This again? Look, buddy, porridge is just warm oatmeal. Oatmeal is just oats. Oats grow in the ground. Do you own the earth?”
The bear paused, scratching his head. “Well, no, but—”
“Then you don’t own the porridge.”
The bear sat down, defeated. “Dang. Never thought of it like that.”
“Glad we could help,” Gus said, holstering his gun. “Now get lost. Go on, git!”
Eventually as all stories must come to an end, they made it to Kansas City. The cattle were loaded up onto a conveyer belt at the meat processor.
“So, I guess this is it,” Bessie said, watching the others get herded inside.
Gus looked away. “Yeah.”
Bessie smiled. “Hey. We had some good times, didn’t we?”
Gus nodded, his throat tight. “Bessie- I-I wish I could…”
Bessie held up one hoof and placed it across Gus’s mouth. After walking. for a thousand miles behind a few hundred other cows, it didn’t look or smell the least bit sanitary, but Gus didn’t think this was the appropriate time to mention it.
Bessie with mournful cow eyes said. “This is just the natural order of things Gus. You ride horses on the plains and I get served up at Five Guys.”
Bessie walked up the ramp off the belt and into the facility. She looked back just once as the doors swung shut.
Later that evening, Gus rode out of town, chewing on a hamburger. The grease dripped onto his saddle. It tasted good.
But it didn’t feel good.
A single tear rolled down his weathered cheek.
“See you, Bessie,” he whispered.
The prairie wind howled in response.
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