Cowboys

Cowboys shows off the work of valley artist, Dan Burr. 

Marshal Brady woke up early and shot right out of bed. He put his boots on first, then his chaps of shiny red.

He strapped a six gun on each side until they felt just right. Then grabbed his Stetson, put it on, and pulled that hat down tight.

The marshal had an appetite. He liked his pancakes hot. He liked them shaped like Mickey Mouse with butter on the top.

Now marshal was just six years old. His real name was John. But his insisted Marshal Brady was his name now on.

He shoveled down his hotcakes and hurried out the door to see if rustlers had sneaked in and robbed him to the core.

The marshal found a rustler just waiting for a fight. The bad man had four legs and a bark without a bite.

The marshal tossed his lasso. It cleared the rustler’s head. He pulled the rope, but not too tight, and locked him in the shed.

Now, the marshal had a trial for that rustler in the jail. But the judge was not a hanging judge. He let him out on bail.

Well, the rustler was relieved just as much as he could be. When the marshal opened up the door that rustler bolted free.

The marshal’s day was spent mostly keeping peace about. He had respect from everyone. The marshal’s name held clout.

Back home in time for supper, he gobbled down his food -- a sandwich and tomato soup, just right for a little dude.

His mother made him take a bath every single night. For a lawman like the marshal, to him, “it just ain’t right.”

He said his prayers and hopped in bed and pulled the covers tight. Then closed his eyes and fell asleep before mom hit the light.

His mother sat beside him and kissed him on the head. She loved to see her little boy asleep in his warm bed.

Well the marshal’s day is over. The bad guy's on the run. Tomorrow is another day for this mother’s little son.

—Bryce Angell