Coyote and the Cowboy

The cowboy lay by the creek, his breath shallow, his body stiffening in the fading light. The sun dipped lower, turning the water to gold. That was what he wanted–wasn’t it? Gold. Westward dreams of it. He planted that dream deep and watched it grow and consume him. It burned him up until he couldn’t stay.

The five hundred dollars he stole on a pair of dice—I made those hands shake, made the roll come right. The bullet that missed his ribs, clean and sharp as a summer wind—that was mine. The way he stumbled drunk beneath the lantern light, clutching the mayor’s girl like a fool, I set his feet to that rhythm, every stumble and every sway.

But the snake? That was his. I made it rattle and gave him the sound. He didn’t listen. Now he’s here, leg swollen, skin cold and pale as the stones by the creek.

“My God,” he whispered, voice cracked and weak.

I leaned down, close enough that he could feel the breath. “No,” I said, soft as the coming night. “That’s me.”

Coyote is everywhere and nowhere. Coyote is in the sagebrush that shivers under the canyon wind, in the gleam of dice that roll too sweetly, the shimmer of gold that calls men down. He’s in the rattle that comes too late, the laugh that rings out when a cowboy spins the wrong girl in his arms.

You don’t see Coyote. You feel him. He’s a pressure, a nudge, a shadow at the firelight’s edge. He is always watching and always grinning. He gave the cowboy the dream, the dice, the luck, and the misstep. He’s the whisper behind the cowboy’s ear when he rolls the dice, the grin in the shadows when the dream eats him alive.

And now, as the cowboy lies there, broken by what he wanted, Coyote is the gold in the creek, the last streak of light in the sky. He’s the voice that comes, smooth and low, when the cowboy says, “My God.”

The cowboy lay by the creek, his breath shallow, his body stiffening in the fading light. The sun dipped lower, turning the water to gold. That was what he wanted–wasn’t it? Gold. Westward dreams of it. He planted that dream deep and watched it grow and consume him. It burned him up until he couldn’t stay.

The five hundred dollars he stole on a pair of dice—I made those hands shake, made the roll come right. The bullet that missed his ribs, clean and sharp as a summer wind—that was mine. The way he stumbled drunk beneath the lantern light, clutching the mayor’s girl like a fool, I set his feet to that rhythm, every stumble and every sway.

But the snake? That was his. I made it rattle and gave him the sound. He didn’t listen. Now he’s here, leg swollen, skin cold and pale as the stones by the creek.

“My God,” he whispered, voice cracked and weak.

I leaned down, close enough that he could feel the breath. “No,” I said, soft as the coming night. “That’s me.”

Coyote is everywhere and nowhere. Coyote is in the sagebrush that shivers under the canyon wind, in the gleam of dice that roll too sweetly, the shimmer of gold that calls men down. He’s in the rattle that comes too late, the laugh that rings out when a cowboy spins the wrong girl in his arms.

You don’t see Coyote. You feel him. He’s a pressure, a nudge, a shadow at the firelight’s edge. He is always watching and always grinning. He gave the cowboy the dream, the dice, the luck, and the misstep. He’s the whisper behind the cowboy’s ear when he rolls the dice, the grin in the shadows when the dream eats him alive.

And now, as the cowboy lies there, broken by what he wanted, Coyote is the gold in the creek, the last streak of light in the sky. He’s the voice that comes, smooth and low, when the cowboy says, “My God.”