SONG OF THE CANYON KID
written by Scott Cherney
Book excerpt
With the morning sun on his back, a young cowboy in a fancy shirt rode his prize pony along the open trail as he wistfully played his guitar in search of an appropriate song for the day’s ride. Before long, he made his selection and plunked out the opening chords of the old western ballad “Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie”. In a pleasing, though melancholy voice, he began to croon the tune with his own set of lyrics as he ambled down the road.
This here’s a song of the lone prairie,
It begins with woe and with misery
It’s a tale of right and a tale of wrong
All about the weak and the very strong.
Folks called him The Canyon Kid. No reason. He just liked the sound of it. The truth was that he never cared for his given name. One might say that it was a sore subject; therefore one shouldn’t bring it up. So he chose The Canyon Kid. It suited him well and that was good enough for him. There are those that said he was an outlaw. Others said he was some sort of a hero.
“Aw, shucks,” the Kid said when he heard this the first time. “All I am is a
lonesome cowpoke with a gun on my hip and a song on my lip.” Then he’d strum the strings on his guitar to emphasize the point. He did that a lot.
It’s true that The Canyon Kid had helped a few needy folks in his travels. He couldn’t help himself. It was just his nature. Many a time the help he provided required the use of his Colt .45, his two strong fists or both.
He used to say, “As long as there’s a wrong that needs to be right, The Canyon Kid will never give up the fight.”
Then he’d strum his guitar again. See? Told you he did that a lot.
The Canyon Kid was what was known as a singing cowboy, the sort of character that was as adept at breaking into song as he was with his side arm. It was a specialized field, but The Kid had the right aptitude for the position. He didn’t start out that way. In fact, he wasn’t even sure that he could carry a tune. He just sort of fell into it. The Kid had been a fresh faced buckaroo, riding the range in search of adventure, aiding and abetting the downtrodden whenever he could. Back in those days, there had been a lot of downtrodden, so his plate was pretty full. The only payment he’d accept for his services would be nothing more than a simple thank you, job well done and maybe a carrot for his horse. Other than that, he’d refuse any reward offered for his good deeds.
But after foiling a stagecoach robbery in the Oklahoma territory, a grateful passenger who happened to be a traveling music salesman insisted The Kid accept something in exchange for saving his life and offered him his choice of whatever instrument he was carrying in his sample case. Reluctantly, The Kid agreed and chose the guitar, though his only other options were a trumpet, a triangle or a zither. He felt that the guitar actually might help keep him company out on the open trail. Much to his amazement, The Kid discovered he had a knack for noodling on that git-box. Even more of a surprise was that he had a half-way decent singing voice, recalling songs he learned in school and from the kindly old sheriff who helped raise him. On top of that, he enjoyed the heck out of it.
The Canyon Kid sat atop his trusty chestnut brown steed, Thunder, on a ridge overlooking a docile little town just below known as Dirt Clod, Missouri, the home of his youth. From that distance, it didn’t look any different than it had not five years before when he rode out of there as the lure of the open road beckoned to him.
“Thunder,” he said to his best friend in the whole wide world. “What say me and you mosey down yonder and see what there is to see?”
Thunder wanted to correct The Kid’s grammar, but decided to let it slide. Besides, he didn’t know how to approach it. Thunder’s math skills were never called into question since he could demonstrate his abilities with his hooves. However, every time The Kid mangled the English language, he could only shake his head and snort in derision. But he gave The Kid a pass as he was feeling charitable at the time.
The two old friends headed down the hill toward the main street of Dirt Clod. As they rode closer, it became readily apparent to The Kid that this wasn’t the same town he remembered. All the buildings appeared familiar. Nothing seemed to be either torn down or built up since he left. From afar, it looked like Dirt Clod, but once it came into view, something was definitely missing. The semblance of any color seemed to have been drained from the entire town. It looked almost sickly, thirsting for a new coat of paint. A few nails, some fresh lumber and a little spit and polish might have helped as well, at least on the surface. But what really needed fixing in that town was a little more extensive and The Canyon Kid knew he was the right handyman for the job.
The streets were empty, devoid of any human activity whatsoever. The quiet was almost deafening and not at all peaceful. It had the distinct ambiance of a ghost town, especially with the lack of any human activity at this time of the morning. It wasn’t exactly the break of dawn. Surely someone must’ve been stirring, but no one seemed to be, not even a mouse. When the sudden clanging sound of metal hitting metal echoed through town, Thunder nearly jumped. Truth to tell, so did The Kid.
“Steady, old fella,” The Kid said as he calmed his horse. He guided Thunder to the back of the bank building and dismounted. “You sit tight. I’m going to do me some sleuthing.”
Thunder nodded his head in acknowledgement, though not in approval of The Kid’s syntax. He watched as The Kid ducked around the corner to Main Street until he disappeared from sight. To pass the time until his return, Thunder practiced his times tables.
Moving about as stealthily as he could while holding a guitar, The Kid followed the sound of that clanging. Now that he had set his boots on the home soil of Dirt Clod proper, an overflowing sense of nostalgia fell upon him, nearly propelling him back in time. Though it was difficult, he resisted the urge to once again wistfully play that guitar of his while taking in the sorry sights surrounding him. He thought this might be wise, considering he was trying to remain inconspicuous on his arrival. Still, the mood struck him and he felt he could risk humming another recognizable tune, as long as he kept it low. He chose “Home on the Range”, just because he felt it appropriate. Besides, the syncopation of the clanging gave the song a fresh spin. When The Kid reached the lyric “Where seldom is heard a discouraging word”, a blood curdling yelp blasted out from the inside of the blacksmith’s shop.
“Son of a biscuit!” the voice cried next, causing The Kid to hold back and duck behind a leafless tree.
Emerging from the blacksmith’s shop, a husky Valkyrie in bib overalls, frumpy hat and filthy face hopped on one foot wincing in agonizing pain. The Kid put two and two together and figured this must be the town blacksmith and a female blacksmith at that. Sort of. He could see that for some strange reason, she had nailed a horseshoe to the bottom of her boot.
“Cheese and crackers!” she wailed as she pried the metal shoe off her foot. “Well, that answers that question.”
Once she spoke, The Canyon Kid recognized his old childhood friend. This curious blacksmith was none other than Charlene Atlas. She used to be the neighborhood bully until she tussled with a young Canyon Kid. He had been walking home from school when Charlene, full size at the age of ten, popped out of the bushes and gave him a big bear hug until he passed out. When he fell to the ground, Charlene sat on his chest and began to thump his forehead with her meaty index finger. She told him she would stop if he cried for his mama. He told her he couldn’t do that because he lost his mama. Hearing that, Charlene stopped thumping and began crying instead. She felt so sorry for the poor boy, she picked him up off the ground and began to hug him again, this time in a more nurturing, yet no less intense manner. Charlene swore she’d never bully anyone ever again.
The Kid smiled at the memory and found that he wanted to get her attention without drawing any additional attention from anyone else. He whispered to her from the tree.
“Psst!”
Charlene froze at the sound.
“What wuz that?”
The Kid tried again.
“ Psst!”
“Uh oh…a snake…”
“Psst…Hey!”
“A talkin’ snake…”
“Psst…Hey, Charlene!”
“A talkin’ snake that knows my name…”
The Canyon Kid sighed. He suddenly recalled how bright Charlene wasn’t. She used to believe that every time the sun went down, she was going blind.
“Turn around, Charlene.”
Moving about suspiciously, Charlene turned to face The Canyon Kid.
“Hey, you ain’t no snake. Yer too tall. Who might you be, stranger?”
The Kid grinned at her.
“Don’t you recognize me?”
Charlene gave him a long once-over. Then a broad, gap-toothed smile exploded across her wide face.
“Well, I’ll be dipped in guacamole! It’s Gene Autry!”
“No.”
“Roy Rogers?”
“Uh-uh.”
After feasting her eyes on that elaborately embroidered and fringed shirt of his, she ventured one more guess.
“You one’a them Village People?”
“I’ll give you a hint,” The Kid said maintaining his wearing patience. “We were young ‘uns together.”
Baffled, Charlene scrutinized the face of this cowpoke with the frilly baby blue shirt. He seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place him. It couldn’t be her pa. This critter was too young and her pa was too dead. Somehow, a name appeared out of the fogbank that was Charlene’s mind and rushed through her like a steam train.
“Shut my mouth an’ call me a clam! It’s Seymour!”
That name hit The Kid literally right where he lived. He hadn’t heard it since he rode out of Dirt Clod and never wanted to hear it again. He could only hope she couldn’t recall his full name. As he pondered that thought, Charlene hugged him like the long-lost brother she never had but always wanted.
“Yeah. It’s me alright. Charlene, you’re bending my guitar.”
She released her grip.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s alright. I should tell you that I don’t go by that name anymore. Now I’m known as…The Canyon Kid.”
He strummed his guitar twice for effect. Since there was someone to hear it, this time it worked. Charlene’s eyes popped out of her head like a bullfrog in fly heaven.
“Canyon Kid? Canyon Kid? Did you say Canyon Kid?”
“It sounds like something I’d say,” he said.
Copyright 2013 by Scott Cherney
written by Scott Cherney
Book excerpt
With the morning sun on his back, a young cowboy in a fancy shirt rode his prize pony along the open trail as he wistfully played his guitar in search of an appropriate song for the day’s ride. Before long, he made his selection and plunked out the opening chords of the old western ballad “Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie”. In a pleasing, though melancholy voice, he began to croon the tune with his own set of lyrics as he ambled down the road.
This here’s a song of the lone prairie,
It begins with woe and with misery
It’s a tale of right and a tale of wrong
All about the weak and the very strong.
Folks called him The Canyon Kid. No reason. He just liked the sound of it. The truth was that he never cared for his given name. One might say that it was a sore subject; therefore one shouldn’t bring it up. So he chose The Canyon Kid. It suited him well and that was good enough for him. There are those that said he was an outlaw. Others said he was some sort of a hero.
“Aw, shucks,” the Kid said when he heard this the first time. “All I am is a
lonesome cowpoke with a gun on my hip and a song on my lip.” Then he’d strum the strings on his guitar to emphasize the point. He did that a lot.
It’s true that The Canyon Kid had helped a few needy folks in his travels. He couldn’t help himself. It was just his nature. Many a time the help he provided required the use of his Colt .45, his two strong fists or both.
He used to say, “As long as there’s a wrong that needs to be right, The Canyon Kid will never give up the fight.”
Then he’d strum his guitar again. See? Told you he did that a lot.
The Canyon Kid was what was known as a singing cowboy, the sort of character that was as adept at breaking into song as he was with his side arm. It was a specialized field, but The Kid had the right aptitude for the position. He didn’t start out that way. In fact, he wasn’t even sure that he could carry a tune. He just sort of fell into it. The Kid had been a fresh faced buckaroo, riding the range in search of adventure, aiding and abetting the downtrodden whenever he could. Back in those days, there had been a lot of downtrodden, so his plate was pretty full. The only payment he’d accept for his services would be nothing more than a simple thank you, job well done and maybe a carrot for his horse. Other than that, he’d refuse any reward offered for his good deeds.
But after foiling a stagecoach robbery in the Oklahoma territory, a grateful passenger who happened to be a traveling music salesman insisted The Kid accept something in exchange for saving his life and offered him his choice of whatever instrument he was carrying in his sample case. Reluctantly, The Kid agreed and chose the guitar, though his only other options were a trumpet, a triangle or a zither. He felt that the guitar actually might help keep him company out on the open trail. Much to his amazement, The Kid discovered he had a knack for noodling on that git-box. Even more of a surprise was that he had a half-way decent singing voice, recalling songs he learned in school and from the kindly old sheriff who helped raise him. On top of that, he enjoyed the heck out of it.
The Canyon Kid sat atop his trusty chestnut brown steed, Thunder, on a ridge overlooking a docile little town just below known as Dirt Clod, Missouri, the home of his youth. From that distance, it didn’t look any different than it had not five years before when he rode out of there as the lure of the open road beckoned to him.
“Thunder,” he said to his best friend in the whole wide world. “What say me and you mosey down yonder and see what there is to see?”
Thunder wanted to correct The Kid’s grammar, but decided to let it slide. Besides, he didn’t know how to approach it. Thunder’s math skills were never called into question since he could demonstrate his abilities with his hooves. However, every time The Kid mangled the English language, he could only shake his head and snort in derision. But he gave The Kid a pass as he was feeling charitable at the time.
The two old friends headed down the hill toward the main street of Dirt Clod. As they rode closer, it became readily apparent to The Kid that this wasn’t the same town he remembered. All the buildings appeared familiar. Nothing seemed to be either torn down or built up since he left. From afar, it looked like Dirt Clod, but once it came into view, something was definitely missing. The semblance of any color seemed to have been drained from the entire town. It looked almost sickly, thirsting for a new coat of paint. A few nails, some fresh lumber and a little spit and polish might have helped as well, at least on the surface. But what really needed fixing in that town was a little more extensive and The Canyon Kid knew he was the right handyman for the job.
The streets were empty, devoid of any human activity whatsoever. The quiet was almost deafening and not at all peaceful. It had the distinct ambiance of a ghost town, especially with the lack of any human activity at this time of the morning. It wasn’t exactly the break of dawn. Surely someone must’ve been stirring, but no one seemed to be, not even a mouse. When the sudden clanging sound of metal hitting metal echoed through town, Thunder nearly jumped. Truth to tell, so did The Kid.
“Steady, old fella,” The Kid said as he calmed his horse. He guided Thunder to the back of the bank building and dismounted. “You sit tight. I’m going to do me some sleuthing.”
Thunder nodded his head in acknowledgement, though not in approval of The Kid’s syntax. He watched as The Kid ducked around the corner to Main Street until he disappeared from sight. To pass the time until his return, Thunder practiced his times tables.
Moving about as stealthily as he could while holding a guitar, The Kid followed the sound of that clanging. Now that he had set his boots on the home soil of Dirt Clod proper, an overflowing sense of nostalgia fell upon him, nearly propelling him back in time. Though it was difficult, he resisted the urge to once again wistfully play that guitar of his while taking in the sorry sights surrounding him. He thought this might be wise, considering he was trying to remain inconspicuous on his arrival. Still, the mood struck him and he felt he could risk humming another recognizable tune, as long as he kept it low. He chose “Home on the Range”, just because he felt it appropriate. Besides, the syncopation of the clanging gave the song a fresh spin. When The Kid reached the lyric “Where seldom is heard a discouraging word”, a blood curdling yelp blasted out from the inside of the blacksmith’s shop.
“Son of a biscuit!” the voice cried next, causing The Kid to hold back and duck behind a leafless tree.
Emerging from the blacksmith’s shop, a husky Valkyrie in bib overalls, frumpy hat and filthy face hopped on one foot wincing in agonizing pain. The Kid put two and two together and figured this must be the town blacksmith and a female blacksmith at that. Sort of. He could see that for some strange reason, she had nailed a horseshoe to the bottom of her boot.
“Cheese and crackers!” she wailed as she pried the metal shoe off her foot. “Well, that answers that question.”
Once she spoke, The Canyon Kid recognized his old childhood friend. This curious blacksmith was none other than Charlene Atlas. She used to be the neighborhood bully until she tussled with a young Canyon Kid. He had been walking home from school when Charlene, full size at the age of ten, popped out of the bushes and gave him a big bear hug until he passed out. When he fell to the ground, Charlene sat on his chest and began to thump his forehead with her meaty index finger. She told him she would stop if he cried for his mama. He told her he couldn’t do that because he lost his mama. Hearing that, Charlene stopped thumping and began crying instead. She felt so sorry for the poor boy, she picked him up off the ground and began to hug him again, this time in a more nurturing, yet no less intense manner. Charlene swore she’d never bully anyone ever again.
The Kid smiled at the memory and found that he wanted to get her attention without drawing any additional attention from anyone else. He whispered to her from the tree.
“Psst!”
Charlene froze at the sound.
“What wuz that?”
The Kid tried again.
“ Psst!”
“Uh oh…a snake…”
“Psst…Hey!”
“A talkin’ snake…”
“Psst…Hey, Charlene!”
“A talkin’ snake that knows my name…”
The Canyon Kid sighed. He suddenly recalled how bright Charlene wasn’t. She used to believe that every time the sun went down, she was going blind.
“Turn around, Charlene.”
Moving about suspiciously, Charlene turned to face The Canyon Kid.
“Hey, you ain’t no snake. Yer too tall. Who might you be, stranger?”
The Kid grinned at her.
“Don’t you recognize me?”
Charlene gave him a long once-over. Then a broad, gap-toothed smile exploded across her wide face.
“Well, I’ll be dipped in guacamole! It’s Gene Autry!”
“No.”
“Roy Rogers?”
“Uh-uh.”
After feasting her eyes on that elaborately embroidered and fringed shirt of his, she ventured one more guess.
“You one’a them Village People?”
“I’ll give you a hint,” The Kid said maintaining his wearing patience. “We were young ‘uns together.”
Baffled, Charlene scrutinized the face of this cowpoke with the frilly baby blue shirt. He seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place him. It couldn’t be her pa. This critter was too young and her pa was too dead. Somehow, a name appeared out of the fogbank that was Charlene’s mind and rushed through her like a steam train.
“Shut my mouth an’ call me a clam! It’s Seymour!”
That name hit The Kid literally right where he lived. He hadn’t heard it since he rode out of Dirt Clod and never wanted to hear it again. He could only hope she couldn’t recall his full name. As he pondered that thought, Charlene hugged him like the long-lost brother she never had but always wanted.
“Yeah. It’s me alright. Charlene, you’re bending my guitar.”
She released her grip.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s alright. I should tell you that I don’t go by that name anymore. Now I’m known as…The Canyon Kid.”
He strummed his guitar twice for effect. Since there was someone to hear it, this time it worked. Charlene’s eyes popped out of her head like a bullfrog in fly heaven.
“Canyon Kid? Canyon Kid? Did you say Canyon Kid?”
“It sounds like something I’d say,” he said.
Copyright 2013 by Scott Cherney