What ever happened to the cowboy? The real cowboy. Tall, dirty and unshaven. Intimidatingly quiet. Sharp, cutting glares. Tangled scowl. The cowboy that was feared by adults yet admired by children. The cowboy you dared not eyeball for too long, or shake out of a deep sleep. Edgy. Patient one minute and dangerously short tempered the next. The gentlemen that tipped his hat to ladies and let the little ones hold his badge. The cowboy made gambling legal and whiskey popular. What ever happened to the expert gunmen that hit a moving target from a moving target? Always hunting, always hunted. His draw and discharge as quick as a hiccup.

What ever happened to that image of a horse and cowboy off in the distance huddled next to a campfire. A hot pot of day-old beans and murky water from a beat up rusty cantina was supplement enough. Cowboys don't sleep, they rest. And they often do so on bumpy terrain. Not by chance, but by choice. They squat on rocks and bathe in creeks. Also by choice. A cowboy doesn't laugh or cry. He doesn't complain or explain. A cowboy is stubbornly resourceful.

A cowboy is more than just a way of life, it's a persona and mentality that doesn't come with the purchase of cowboy boots and a hat. It's one that can't be earned, imitated or duplicated. A cowboy is born a cowboy and will remain a cowboy through life and death.