Where Have All The Cowgirls Gone? - A Short

    The town of Huntsville—a town that no longer exists—once rested in a valley along a dense part of the Black Hills.  In its heyday, the town was filled with miners, proprietors, apothecaries, deputies, bartenders, cowboys, and the always-elusive cowgirls.  There was a time when Huntsville thrived with cowgirls, each one more beautiful and more brutal than the last.  They were the quiet ones, but they were also the temptresses.  Thirty years before the end of Huntsville, a cowgirl could walk into a bar, down a couple of whiskeys, shoot dead a fat drunk who got too handsy, and ride off with their cattle.  Their clothes were always neatly put together, but surprisingly rugged.  Their belts hung low around their hips, spare bullet cartridges digging into their thighs, guns hanging low.  And they always had dual pistols, as if they unionized and agreed every cowgirl demanded two guns rather than one.  The cowgirls of Huntsville were sexy and scary, intimidation one of their many tools.

    But as the rivers ran light with gold, the town began to dwindle.  The miners were the first to go, then the proprietors went because there were no more miners to buy their goods, then the apothecaries went because there were no more miners or proprietors to buy their drugs, then the deputies left because there were no longer any miners, proprietors, or apothecaries to arrest.  Huntsville slipped away.  The saloon was the only business left, serving whiskey and beer to the cowboys and cowgirls until they stumbled off or passed out at the bar.

    At first it seemed the cowgirls simply faded away, slowly becoming less and less.  They disappeared without any real memories or impressions; one moment they were there, and then they were gone.  

    By the time winter came the saloon was filled with only cowboys and Huntsville’s two remaining cowgirls: Amy Kline and Kat Thomas.  Amy was the louder of the two, more assertive, but also more obnoxious; after a few drinks she’d run her mouth to anybody who would listen.  She was also terribly attractive, sporting these long brown locks that waved behind her like a cape.  She could ride for days and step off that horse without a strand out of place.  Her body was curvy in all the right places and she had these small, calloused hands that looked decades beyond her years.  She flirted with the cowboys, but never left with any of them.  She’d laugh and she’d tease, but it was always her usual schtick. 

    Kat was much different.  She kept her head down and never took off her hat.  She always had it pulled down low as if preparing herself for sleep.  Her body was much slimmer than Amy’s, but there was nothing fragile about her.  Kat was tough.  She had these lean arms that could have tore the head off any number of cowboys.  She barely spoke, but, when she did, her words were full of elegance and refinement.  She was calculated in her actions, confident and beautiful.  When Amy walked into the saloon, the cowboys yearned; but when Kat walked in, they became breathless.

    Amy was the first to be gone.  She and a group of cowboys stayed up taking pulls of cheap beer while watching the sun rise over the ridge.  Morning light spilled into the valley.  A few cowboys offered Amy kisses and proposals, all of them she declined with a smile and a bat of the lashes.  The cowboys’ hearts swooned and swelled, but they were never satisfied.  When Amy was sure the last of the beer had gone, she straddled her horse and rode off into the hills.  The cowboys of Huntsville never saw her again.

    And then there was Kat.  Kat was the last of Huntsville’s cowgirls.  She didn’t seem to notice Amy had gone, or—more than likely—didn’t care.  She kept coming around the saloon and drinking her whiskey in silence.  Every so often a drunk and audacious cowboy would set a beer in front of her and ask to dance.  Kat would drink the beer, slide the empty glass back, and shake her head “no.”  The cowboys were never offended, Kat was far too alluring to warrant offense.

    Winter drew on with its thick sheets of snow and hazy storms of ice.  The Black Hills were frigid, unbearable, and deathly.  With each passing moon, the cowboys become more and more convinced they would wake to a Kat-less saloon.  But each afternoon she sauntered in and sat down at her usual booth.  The cowboys would breathe a sigh of relief and wait until the next day to stress.

    Spring finally came to Huntsville and the nights grew warmer.  The streams shed their ice and the snow drained away.  The hills became black again.

    It wasn’t until evening that Kat walked in.  Usually she strolled in around midday or just thereafter, but on the first day of spring, she came in well past 7.  The bartender slid her a beer and a shot and moved off without either of them nodding or smiling.  She drank both slowly, finishing the drinks in two hours times.  When it was time for another, the bartender brought her two shots and a beer.  “The second shot’s from him,” he said pointing to a cowboy at the far end of the saloon.  “Come on, Kat!” the cowboy (whose name was Warren) called to her.  “Give us a kiss, will ya?”

    Kat eyed him suspiciously and Warren grinned at her with his decayed teeth.  She took a couple sips of beer and Warren watched her patiently.  Finally she gathered up one of the shots and carried it over to him.  Warren was sitting with a larger group of cowboys, their table littered with empty shot and pint glasses.  Cards were scattered about, but nobody seemed to be playing.  Kat walked with those long, skinny legs, her spurs clicking across the wood floor as she went.  The whiskey in the shot glass sloshed and swayed, but she didn’t spill a drop.  Warren licked his lips.

    Kat set the shot on the table, covering up a pair of Jacks.  He smiled again.  The other cowboys were leaning back in their chairs, uneasy of Kat’s proximity.  They had spent many nights watching her in the shadows, but now that she was in the light, there was something daunting about her, invincible.  Warren continued to leer and that further fueled their uneasiness.

    “Something wrong wit’ the drink?” Warren asked.

    Kat’s hand fell to one of her pistols.  The bartender watched on, his hand resting on the shotgun behind the bar.

    “Come on now, love,” said Warren.  “No need to get saucy.”

    Kat bent down and took Warren’s chin with her thumb and index finger.  She pulled him close, feeling his breath on hers.  He watched her, mesmerized.  Her eyes, normally cold and grey in the dark of the saloon, were now startlingly blue.  She pulled him toward her and kissed him with those thin, subtle lips.  It was short and quick, but it stole his breath away. Kat picked up the shot and swallowed it down.  She wiped her lips, not because of the whiskey, but because of the kiss.  Warren, though, was none-the-wiser.  

    She tapped at her holster again.  The bartender continued to watch her carefully.  Warren’s lip was quivering.  “All right then?” the bartender called over.

    “Yeah…” Warren stammered.  “All right.”

    Kat turned on her boots and carried herself out of the bar with an eerie silence.  The night birds chirped, singing their spring songs of glee, but they were drowned out by the neighing and nickering of Kat’s horse as she climbed upon him.  Its hooves thundered across Main Street’s thawed dirt as she raced it out of town.  

    After a while Huntsville became quiet again.

    The cowboys drank in silence until dawn came over the hills.  They wandered to wherever cowboys wander and slept off their sorrows.  Some of them were drunk, some of them were broke, but all of them were dream-starved. 

    The next evening the cowboys came back to the saloon and waited for Kat to return.  But the night wore on and the saloon remained empty.  The town was unbearably sullen.  Another dawn came and the cowboys became convinced that Kat had gone.  The next night was far gloomier.  They waited and they drank, but Kat never came.  The Black Hills had her now.

    Huntsville withered away.  It wouldn’t take long for the other cowboys to disappear into those hills just as the miners, the proprietors, the apothecaries, the deputies, and the cowgirls had.  There was nothing left for them in Huntsville anymore.  

    The bartender was the last to leave.  On the day the final cowboy left (which, coincidentally enough, was Warren), the bartender locked up the saloon and left Huntsville behind.

    Maybe there would be other cowgirls, he thought as he packed up his horse, maybe some place where the gold continued to rush and the winters weren’t so vicious.