The Good, the Bad, and the Goofy Read online

  “I’m on the way, Bob. Just stopped by to see if these boys needed a hand. They tell me they’re from New York. They want to be real cowboys.”

  Trail Boss Bob looked down at us and then stepped his horse sideways. “I don’t give a crusty cow patty if they’re from the moon and want to be the King of England. I’ve got a thousand head of longhorn to drive up this trail. And I’ve got to get fifteen more miles through Cheyenne country before nightfall.” The Boss gave us another look. “Let ’em ride drag with the Kid to work for their grub. I ain’t paying no wages to train scrawny greenhorns. Real cowboys? Yahhh!”

  Bob slapped his horse and galloped off, spraying sand and dust all over us.

  Cooky leaned over and spit. “Now, isn’t he a tenderhearted fella.”

  “I don’t suppose he had a small blue book in that saddlebag,” said Sam.

  “Real cowboys,” said Cooky. And then he laughed and laughed and laughed and spit.

  “I didn’t think so,” said Sam.

  FOUR

  The next few hours lasted a lifetime. The Kid (who turned out to be just a year or two older than us) fixed us up with three scrawny ponies that looked like they escaped from the used-horse lot.

  Fred fell off once. I got thrown four times. And Sam quit counting how many times he got dumped by his cross-eyed nag.

  Once we finally figured out how to steer our reject ponies, the Kid explained what “riding drag” meant. Our job was to follow the herd, round up strays, and keep the slow cattle moving. What we really did was choke on dust, run blind into cactus, and smell the nasty smell that follows two thousand cattle wherever they go.

  Trail Boss Bob came back every once in a while to try out new curse words on us.

  “Keep ’em moving, you prairie-dog pellets. You’ll never be real cowboys that way.” Bob smacked Sam’s pony on the rump and sent him into another cactus patch.

  When the sun finally sank, we staggered into camp.

  “I’m starved,” said Fred.

  “I’m hungry, thirsty, dirty, sore, and too tired to list everything else I am,” said Sam.

  We walked up to the campfire and joined about ten other cowboys around the chuck wagon. Cooky stood in the middle, dishing dinner out of a big iron pot over the fire.

  “Hey, lookee here-it’s our New York cowboys.” Cooky spit a stream of tobacco juice, then plopped a spoonful of something on a plate.

  The crew turned to check us out. They didn’t look anything like Cowboy Bob on TV. Four of the guys were black, three were Mexican, and they were all even dirtier than we were. Most had scraggly beards and beat-up brown hats. They all had boots with spurs, bandannas around their necks, and jeans. Most had a single six-shooter in a holster. Nobody said a word. The sun slipped below the horizon and lit the clouds red and purple.

  “Sit down and eat up,” said Cooky, spooning up three plates.

  “I think I’ll just stand,” said Sam.

  Fred pushed the stuff around on his plate and smelled a forkful. “What is it?”

  “Cooky only knows two meals,” said a cowboy missing a few teeth. “So it’s either bacon, beans, and biscuits or biscuits, beans, and bacon.”

  The rest of the cowboys laughed and hooted.

  I tasted a little bite. It reminded me of some of our science experiments—like the one where we grew mold on bread and forgot about it for three weeks.

  “I’ll never complain about cafeteria food again,” said Fred.

  But we were all so hungry we ate the mess. We even sopped our plates clean with biscuits like everybody else. The last of the sunlight disappeared and a cool breeze picked up. We moved closer to the fire.

  Fred took off his Tigers hat and tried to slap the dust off it. “What a life. What do you guys do for fun?”

  None of the cowboys said anything. I didn’t want this time trip to be a repeat of our last two near-disaster adventures, so I spoke up, trying to sound as friendly as I could, in a cowboy sort of way.

  “Howdy. My name is Jumping Joe. This here is Wild Fred. And that there is Yosemite Sam.”

  A few guys looked at us. Somebody burped. I figured I’d better keep talking before the beans took effect.

  “We just want to say thanks for letting us join up with you. We’ll only be sticking around a few days until we get to town and—”

  “Two months, more like it,” said Cooky, spitting into the fire.

  “Two months?” said Sam.

  “Yep. Take us at least that long to get to Abilene.”

  “Two months?” said Sam. “I can’t take two months of dust and beans and bacon. We’ve got to get out of here.” Sam jumped to his feet and chanted a spell:“We are rubber.

  Cowboys are glue.

  Send us back home.

  Whoop whoop-ee-do.”

  I sat Sam down and whispered, “Knock it off. They’ll think we’re crazy. Besides, the only way we can get back is to find The Book.”

  I had just managed to calm Sam down when Fred spoke up.

  “And where are all those famous cowboys like Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill Hickok and General Custer?”

  The biggest, meanest-looking black cowboy suddenly looked up. “Did you say Custer?”

  “Uh ... yeah,” said Fred.

  “There’s a Lieutenant Custer at Fort Dodge leading the Seventh Cavalry. I just got out of the Tenth.”

  Then it suddenly dawned on me just where and when we were. “You mean Custer’s still alive?”

  “Last I heard.”

  “What year is this?”

  The cowboys around the campfire looked at me like I was crazy. “Sixty-eight.”

  “Custer’s Last Stand isn’t until 1876,” I said. “He attacks a huge camp of Sioux and Cheyenne. He and the whole Seventh Cavalry get wiped out.”

  Now the cowboys looked at me like they knew I was crazy.

  “We’ve got to warn him,” said Fred. “Where are they?”

  “They’re around here somewheres,” said the cowboy from the Tenth. “They’re looking for Black Kettle and his Cheyenne braves after what they done to them boys driving the King Ranch herd through here last week.”

  A coyote howled in the dark.

  Sam’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. “Wha ... wha ... what did they do to them boys driving the King Ranch herd through here last week?”

  “First they tied ‘em up. Then they scalped ’em,” said Cooky. “Then they cut ’em open. Then they took their guts and—”

  “Cooky!”

  Sam and I jumped into each other’s arms.

  Trail Boss Bob appeared out of the darkness.

  “Stop flapping your gums, you sorry sacks of sod. We’ve got trouble.”

  “Indians?” I asked.

  “Worse,” said Bob. “Thunderstorm. One crack of thunder and this Lazy J herd is gone just like this afternoon. Once a herd spooks, they’ll spook again.” Bob looked at Fred, Sam, and me like we were something he stepped in. “And when two thousand head of cattle run over a man, they don’t leave much to bury.”

  “Thanks for sharing that with us,” said Fred.

  “Jake, you and Cody go on first watch. Try to calm them doggies down,” growled Bob. “The rest of you be ready to ride.”

  We tried to find a comfortable spot on the rocky ground. The sky was pitch black. Not a star to be seen. We could hear the cattle moving and Jake and Cody singing to them to keep them calm:“Oh, slow up, doggies, quit moving around.

  You’ve wandered and trampled all over the ground. Oh, graze along, doggies, and feed kinda slow Hi-o, Hi-o, Hi-o.”

  Sam bumped his head on a rock. “Owww. Okay, Boy Wizard, it’s been just swell being a real cowboy. But now I think we should find The Book and go home.”

  “But nobody here has any kind of book. Maybe it’s in Abilene, at the end of the trail,” I said, thinking out loud.

  “I can’t stand two months of that jerk Bob,” said Fred. “We have to take our horses and get out of here tonight.”
r />   “Are you crazy?” said Sam. “There are Indians out there. Didn’t you hear what Cooky said? First they tied ‘em up. Then they scalped ’em. Then—”

  “Yeah, but the Seventh Cavalry is out there,” said Fred.

  “So?” said Sam.

  “So they probably have The Book,” said Fred.

  I thought about it for a minute. “Hey, Fred might be right. The cavalry always comes to the rescue. They must have The Book.”

  “That settles it,” said Fred. “We escape tonight and find the Seventh Cavalry.”

  “Not me,” said Sam, rolling up tighter in his blanket. “I’m staying right here and letting the Seventh Cavalry find me.”

  “Escape,” said Fred.

  “Stay,” said Sam.

  “Escape.”

  “Stay.”

  A streak of lightning and a sharp crack of thunder stopped any further discussion.

  We felt a familiar rumbling through our blankets. We knew what it was before we heard Cody’s yell.

  “Stampede”

  FIVE

  I thought the first stampede was bad, but this was worse, times twenty. In the pitch blackness Fred, Sam, and I rolled out of our blankets and started running. This was not a good idea because the ground suddenly disappeared. In the next lightning flash we found ourselves in a pile at the bottom of a gully.

  We could hear the cattle mooing and running all around us. Cowboys yelled, whistled, and fired their guns trying to turn the herd in a circle. We could smell the cattle. We could even feel their heat. But we could only see the wild scene when the lightning flashed. Then it started to rain. Hard.

  “Stay close to the bank,” yelled Fred. “We’ll be safe there.”

  Sam and I didn’t need any directions. We were already trying to dig ourselves into the side so we wouldn’t get squashed by any falling cows.

  The ground shook and rumbled all around us. Lightning, thunder, and sheets of water crashed down on us from above.

  Then I heard a different, whooshing kind of sound.

  “What’s that?” yelled Fred.

  “I don’t know,” I yelled back.

  The lightning flashed. I saw us standing in ankle-deep water.

  The whooshing sound grew louder.

  The lightning flashed. I saw the water moving.

  The whooshing sound grew louder still.

  I suddenly figured out what was making that sound.

  “Sam! Fred! Climb! We’re standing in a riverbed!”

  We had just enough time to look at each other and scream before a wall of water roared around the bend and knocked us off our feet. We tumbled head-over-heels, every-man-for-himself for what seemed like miles.

  Every now and then lightning flashed. I could see Sam’s head bobbing ahead of me. I could hear Fred yell. I dog-paddled, jumped, and bumped my way along. Brush, sticks, and what looked an awful lot like dead lizards and snakes tumbled by. Thunder crashed. The rain slashed. The river whooshed along. And then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over.

  The rain stopped, and I found myself floating in a quiet pool. I looked up and saw black clouds racing off, a few stars left behind. The sky lightened along one edge and dimmed the stars.

  “Sam. Fred,” I croaked.

  No answer.

  I paddled to the edge of the pool and crawled up the sandy riverbank.

  “Sam. Fred.”

  I dragged myself to the top and looked around. Everything was the same, but everything was different. The same sand, grass, and cactus were still there. But there were no cowboys, no cattle, and worst of all—no Sam or Fred anywhere in sight.

  I called, “Sam, Fred,” one more time. Then I must have passed out because when I came to, someone was shaking me.

  I was sure it was Custer and the cavalry come to the rescue. “Sam, Fred, we’re saved.”

  I opened my eyes.

  I saw moccasins, leggings, a beaded shirt, and a reddish brown face topped with a single feather.

  I passed out cold again.

  SIX

  I woke to the jolting step of a horse. All I could see was the ground rushing past a beaded moccasin toe. It took me a minute to figure out that I was facedown over the horse’s back, being carried off by an Indian brave. My hands and feet were tied together and I felt like I had been beaten all over my body with a large stick.

  I tried to get the attention of my new friend.

  “Excuse me. Hi. Hello there. Yoo-hoo. How?”

  The brave reined his horse to a stop.

  “Oh, thanks,” I said. “Listen, I feel like I’ve been beaten all over my body with a large stick. Do you think we could maybe stop for a minute?”

  The brave gave me a look, then jerked up my hands. I slid off the horse and landed with a thump.

  “Ouch. Thanks.”

  The brave jumped off his horse. He wore some kind of hide leggings and a long-sleeved hide shirt with beads and fringe down the arms. A single feather was fixed kind of sideways in his long straight black hair. He carried his bow and arrows on his back, a long knife in his belt, and a rifle in his hand.

  “Uh ... hi,” I said. I was so scared I could barely squeak.

  He stared at me with the blackest eyes I’ve ever seen. I thought about the King Ranch boys.

  “M-m-my name is Joe,” I stuttered. “And I’m not really a friend of any of those cowboy guys. Nope. I hardly know them. I’m from another time, you see, and—”

  The brave turned suddenly. He slid his rifle into his saddle. He took something out of a pouch and then eased his long, sharp knife out of its sheath.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “You can’t scalp me. My parents would kill me.”

  The brave took a step toward me.

  I put my bound hands on top of my head. “But I need my scalp.”

  The brave crouched in front of me.

  “I know magic. I’ll show you magic. Look—nothing up my sleeve.”

  The knife; the huge, sharp, shiny knife flashed quickly in the sun. It sliced a piece of something the brave held. He popped the stuff into his mouth, sliced another piece, and handed it to me. It was food.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So I took the stuff and ate it. It tasted like old sneakers mixed with bacon fat and rotten berries.

  “Umm. Good,” I said, rubbing my stomach. “Delicious.” I was so happy to still be alive with my own hair on top of my own head that I couldn’t stop talking. I talked while we ate more of the nasty stuff. I talked while he cut the straps on my wrists and ankles. I talked while he hoisted me up on the bare back of one of the three horses he was leading. And I talked while we rode over miles of more sand and cactus. We finally rode up a hill and the brave held up his hand for quiet.

  On the other side of a river stood a whole city of tipis. There must have been a hundred of them.

  A small pack of kids and dogs met us as we crossed the river. The kids laughed and pointed at me, calling, “Wasichu. Wasichu.”

  I waved back to them. “Hello. Wasichu. Hello. Wasichu.”

  The brave and all of the kids laughed. I didn’t see what was so funny. We rode past women scraping hides and cooking, men sewing hide shields and sharpening spears. Everyone stopped to stare as we rode by.

  “Hello. Wasichu,” I waved. Everyone laughed again.

  We rode up to a large tipi with dogs and scenes of battle painted all over it. A large, fierce-looking brave came out of the tipi. The kids and the dogs scattered.

  “Another of the strange little wasichus for you, Bull Bear,” said my guard in perfect English.

  Bull Bear smiled a nasty smile. I stared in surprise.

  “But I must warn you: I think this one’s name is Talks Like the River. He never stops.”

  Bull Bear lifted me off my horse like I was a stuffed toy. He carried me into the tipi under one arm and dumped me on a pile of buffalo robes.

  “Ow,” said one robe.

  “Hey, watch it,” said another.

  Sam and
Fred appeared from under the buffalo robes.

  “Sam! Fred! Am I glad to see you.”

  “Joe! Oh, man, are we glad to see you.”

  My eyes slowly adjusted to the light inside the tipi. Bull Bear sat on the other side of the fire pit, staring at me very intently.

  “Why is he staring at me like that?” I whispered.

  “He’s glad to see you, too,” said Sam.

  “What?”

  “Yeah,” said Fred. “You see, when they caught us we kind of told them they had to find you, too. We said you were the one with the strong medicine.”

  “Strong medicine?”

  “Yeah, you know,” said Sam. “Magic.”

  “Strong medicine tonight,” said Bull Bear. “No medicine—you die.”

  “Strong medicine?” I asked.

  “That’s right. Strong medicine,” said Sam. “Tonight.”

  “Tonight?” I asked.

  “Or we die,” said Fred.

  SEVEN

  Bull Bear’s wife thought we looked hungry. She brought us more of the rotten-sneaker meat stuff.

  “Doesn’t anybody in this time eat regular food?” said Fred.

  “You were expecting buffalo pizza?” asked Sam.

  In between halfhearted bites, Sam and Fred filled me in on what they had found out.

  “These guys are from Black Kettle’s Cheyenne tribe—the one Cooky said Custer has been chasing around,” said Sam.

  “Yeah,” said Fred. “And the good news is that Black Kettle is not a bad guy. He wants to return us to Custer’s cavalry to prove that they are a peaceful tribe.”

  “But the bad news,” said Sam, “is that this guy Bull Bear is the leader of a group of warriors called Dog Soldiers. He thinks they should return just our scalps.”

  “So let me guess,” I said, feeling sicker than the food. “The council tonight is to decide whether they send back us or our scalps.”

  “Right,” said Sam.

  “Right,” said Fred.

  “Great,” I said.

  The council tipi was the largest tipi of all. Inside and out, it was covered with pictures and designs. A few stars twinkled in the bit of sky we could see through the smoke hole at the top.