The Cowboy From Laramie, Wyoming
Cheatin' At Cards Is Not His Way of Makin' a Livin'.
1868
Laramie, Wyoming
5:07 pm
Friday
Kettle Brush Saloon
It was just yesterday that he rode into town, hitched his horse in front of the saloon, and joined a card game.
"Your luck is just a little bit suspicious," one player said, almost as soon as Nick Johns sat down.
The other five players studied their cards.
"That's how I make a livin'," Johns answered. "I gotta be good."
A honky tonk piano player was making music in the corner; other tables were full of cowboys, ranchers, and local residents drinking whiskey, playing cards, or just talking. A lone woman was standing on the stairway.
Dollars and cents moved about the table, almost like it was a ouija board, seemingly at random, depending on which player held the winning hand.
The sun was coming down hard, and the hot street billowed puffs of dust as wagons rattled and horses clopped in one direction and the other.
Players entered the game, and some left, few with the money they sat down with.
Johns had been at this table for more than 24 hours.
"This has got to be my final game, my last one. I need a hotel and a good meal."
"The only rooms in town are the ones upstairs here," one player said.
Another one glared at Johns: "You ain't leavin' with the money I brought. I need to get it back."
Johns acted unaffected.
"Just part of the game, my friend," he said.
The player gradually rose from his chair.
"Let's just see you stand up, right here, at this table, mister."
Johns acted calm.
Another player: "Your winning streak...it's just a little too good to be true."
A third player: "I ain't saying you are cheatin', but I am saying we have had cheatin' card players in this town before."
"Yea, and they are buried up on the ridge," said another player.
Johns tipped back his hat. A grin crept across his face.
"I can't make a livin' cheatin'." He was standing now, and he looked every other player in the eye. "I'd be dead by now otherwise."
One of the players drew a revolver and set it on the table. "Strip yourself down to the waist."
The table was full of money, bills and coin, and most of it was stacked in front of Johns's seat.
The noise in the saloon was dying. The piano player stopped. The bartender was now watching this table and its players with a shotgun ready. A pillow of dust rolled in the front door. Johns was standing with his back to the door. He waved his hat at the dust as if to blow it elsewhere. That is when he acted suddenly, throwing the table up on its end, spilling money all over the place.
The other players were startled and for the briefest moment were occupied with the money clinking and blowing around on the floor. That is when Johns ran out the door, untied his horse and headed off to the north. The horse kicked up dust and grit and he heard what sounded like an army shooting guns in the same direction - his direction!
His luck was about to run out, he feared, and he had played his last card game. A single bullet could be headed his way. There was a vacuum of silence and his horse seemed to be pounding its hoofs at the air. The sound of gunshots disappeared, and Johns was blinded by darkness.
2011
Sandusky, Ohio
9:31 am
Saturday
His horse seemed grateful to find water, and bent down to drink. Johns climbed off the horse. His clothes, his face, his hands, were covered with Wyoming dust. He slapped his trousers with his hands, and clouds of dust arose. He stamped his feet, brushed his leather vest, and pounded his hat against a tree.
Finally, he started to look around. Nothing was familiar. No matter where he looked, in front of him were sights he had never seen and did not know: lake freighters, concrete roads, paved streets, cars, trucks, people wearing city clothes.
A policeman approached him.
"You on your way to a country and western convention, or something," he said politely.
Nick Johns heard the words but seemed unable to speak. His nerves were still jangling from the gunshots aimed his way.
"City ordinance doesn't allow horses in town, without a permit, of course," the policeman said.
Johns turned to his horse. "This is my transportation."
The police officer was growing curious. "Just what exactly are you doing? Are you from Cedar Point?"
Johns did not know that Cedar Point was a huge amusement park nearby.
"I just rode out of Laramie."
The police officer said, "Laramie? Where is Laramie."
"Wyoming territory."
The police officer stepped back. There was more to this man - the teeth were yellow and crooked; the hands showed large gnarled knuckles; the words were few and unpolished; the clothes from another era; the horse was covered with soot.
"Back to the country and western thing," the police officer said.
He waited for a more expansive answer.
"I got to be moving on," Johns said. He mounted his horse. The police officer let him leave but followed him with his squad car as the horse trotted east toward Cleveland. He took time to write up a report. It was picked up the next day by the local newspaper. The headline:
Police Question Cowboy in Downtown Park - Possible Prank
Nick Johns never made it to Cleveland in 2011.
He never made it back to Laramie in 1868.
The citizens of Sandusky, Ohio, never learned whether this was a
prank or not.
Maybe you have the answer.
Laramie, Wyoming
5:07 pm
Friday
Kettle Brush Saloon
It was just yesterday that he rode into town, hitched his horse in front of the saloon, and joined a card game.
"Your luck is just a little bit suspicious," one player said, almost as soon as Nick Johns sat down.
The other five players studied their cards.
"That's how I make a livin'," Johns answered. "I gotta be good."
A honky tonk piano player was making music in the corner; other tables were full of cowboys, ranchers, and local residents drinking whiskey, playing cards, or just talking. A lone woman was standing on the stairway.
Dollars and cents moved about the table, almost like it was a ouija board, seemingly at random, depending on which player held the winning hand.
The sun was coming down hard, and the hot street billowed puffs of dust as wagons rattled and horses clopped in one direction and the other.
Players entered the game, and some left, few with the money they sat down with.
Johns had been at this table for more than 24 hours.
"This has got to be my final game, my last one. I need a hotel and a good meal."
"The only rooms in town are the ones upstairs here," one player said.
Another one glared at Johns: "You ain't leavin' with the money I brought. I need to get it back."
Johns acted unaffected.
"Just part of the game, my friend," he said.
The player gradually rose from his chair.
"Let's just see you stand up, right here, at this table, mister."
Johns acted calm.
Another player: "Your winning streak...it's just a little too good to be true."
A third player: "I ain't saying you are cheatin', but I am saying we have had cheatin' card players in this town before."
"Yea, and they are buried up on the ridge," said another player.
Johns tipped back his hat. A grin crept across his face.
"I can't make a livin' cheatin'." He was standing now, and he looked every other player in the eye. "I'd be dead by now otherwise."
One of the players drew a revolver and set it on the table. "Strip yourself down to the waist."
The table was full of money, bills and coin, and most of it was stacked in front of Johns's seat.
The noise in the saloon was dying. The piano player stopped. The bartender was now watching this table and its players with a shotgun ready. A pillow of dust rolled in the front door. Johns was standing with his back to the door. He waved his hat at the dust as if to blow it elsewhere. That is when he acted suddenly, throwing the table up on its end, spilling money all over the place.
The other players were startled and for the briefest moment were occupied with the money clinking and blowing around on the floor. That is when Johns ran out the door, untied his horse and headed off to the north. The horse kicked up dust and grit and he heard what sounded like an army shooting guns in the same direction - his direction!
His luck was about to run out, he feared, and he had played his last card game. A single bullet could be headed his way. There was a vacuum of silence and his horse seemed to be pounding its hoofs at the air. The sound of gunshots disappeared, and Johns was blinded by darkness.
2011
Sandusky, Ohio
9:31 am
Saturday
His horse seemed grateful to find water, and bent down to drink. Johns climbed off the horse. His clothes, his face, his hands, were covered with Wyoming dust. He slapped his trousers with his hands, and clouds of dust arose. He stamped his feet, brushed his leather vest, and pounded his hat against a tree.
Finally, he started to look around. Nothing was familiar. No matter where he looked, in front of him were sights he had never seen and did not know: lake freighters, concrete roads, paved streets, cars, trucks, people wearing city clothes.
A policeman approached him.
"You on your way to a country and western convention, or something," he said politely.
Nick Johns heard the words but seemed unable to speak. His nerves were still jangling from the gunshots aimed his way.
"City ordinance doesn't allow horses in town, without a permit, of course," the policeman said.
Johns turned to his horse. "This is my transportation."
The police officer was growing curious. "Just what exactly are you doing? Are you from Cedar Point?"
Johns did not know that Cedar Point was a huge amusement park nearby.
"I just rode out of Laramie."
The police officer said, "Laramie? Where is Laramie."
"Wyoming territory."
The police officer stepped back. There was more to this man - the teeth were yellow and crooked; the hands showed large gnarled knuckles; the words were few and unpolished; the clothes from another era; the horse was covered with soot.
"Back to the country and western thing," the police officer said.
He waited for a more expansive answer.
"I got to be moving on," Johns said. He mounted his horse. The police officer let him leave but followed him with his squad car as the horse trotted east toward Cleveland. He took time to write up a report. It was picked up the next day by the local newspaper. The headline:
Police Question Cowboy in Downtown Park - Possible Prank
Nick Johns never made it to Cleveland in 2011.
He never made it back to Laramie in 1868.
The citizens of Sandusky, Ohio, never learned whether this was a
prank or not.
Maybe you have the answer.
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