Sick of sport? Why not relax with a cowboy tale? Wild West Wagonwheels Inc brings you:
Water Duffers
The arrival of a wagon train in Coil Springs was always an exciting moment. This wagon train was especially interesting because it was laden with big shiny black pipes. Cowhands and wranglers and can-can dancers hung around in little knots staring as it rumbled down the main street. But it interested no-one more than Sheriff Chet Chuck.
Leaning against a veranda post, he narrowed his eyes as it careered into the distance, leaving a cloud of dust. Sheriff Chuck was a man in his middle years, tough as timber, shirt open to show a profusion of black hair on his chest, which somehow proved his strength. His manner was cool and calm. Pushing back his white hat, he spoke just one sentence in his deep voice. "I wonder what them thangs are for."
Four weeks later the Sheriff was leaning against a lamp post narrowing his eyes when a single rider galloped into town on a sweating horse. It was Frank Lassoo, a hand from the Big A Ranch, twenty miles south. Lassoo cleared the dust from his throat and spoke just two words in his deep voice. "Water-duffers".
The Sheriff grunted. "You mean folks that’s wastin water? In this drought? They need to be put straight."
Lassoo spat derisively. "No Chet. I mean folks that’s stealin water."
Sheriff Chuck’s head jerked up. "How do you know?"
Lassoo spat again. "I seen them. They’ve stuck a dirty great pump on the Badymonid River and they’re burying big shiny black pipes down along the dried-up Ororaro Valley towards Dollarville. I figure they’re fixin to pump water out of that river and send it down to those wealthy Dollarville folk while we get stuck with a dry river. Do you figure so Sheriff?"
Chet Chuck pushed his hat back. "Mebbe".
Doc Martin, who was leaning on the other side of the lamp post, spoke up. "That’ll mean the fish would die. There would be extremely serious implications for all the aquatic biota – in fact, the whole ecosystem will be severely disturbed."
Lassoo nodded slowly. "Yep, Doc’s right, Chet. The environment is as legitimate a water user as we folks. And biodiversity is the web of life that we depend on.
Chet bit back his irritation. Ever since that new barmaid Susannah Gunnah had come to town with her posters and pamphlets and stickers and badges, the men had been reading far too many books. "Well we’d better form a posse, boys."
Soon there was a pounding of hoof-beats and thirty men rode out of town on the back trail towards Dollarvile, Sheriff Chuck at their lead. Holding onto his saddle, he winced. Those new-fangled vinyl chaps were chafing badly. They splashed though the puddles of the Ororaro River, just a trickle since the autumn rains had failed. The Badymonid River still had a little flow, but it was getting less each day. Coil Springs had been doing it hard for quite some time. The ranchers were only allowed to use hand held hoses for an hour a day, and this was taking a heavy toll on their moonshine stills. The bank was set to pounce on anyone who looked precarious, and several families had already had to walk away from their life’s work. The last thing the district needed was the theft of their last remaining water, and the decimating of the unique and wonderful Badymonid ecosystem.
They set up camp behind a stand of camphor laurels. That night they sat around the fire and ate beans and jerky. A youngster by the name of Danny Saloon sang a song about the importance of water flows for fish habitat, and several of the men were heard to sniff back tears in the quiet that followed. Before light the next morning, Chet Chuck leaned against a sapling and thought deeply. The best thing to do was a bit of reconnaissance, a bit of eye-narrowing, then make a plan. A shoot-out never hurt. Or maybe just a bar room brawl. In front of Susannah Gunnah. He made a mental note to start wearing his old real leather chaps again. His reverie was interrupted by the sound of shovelling and grunting and an occasional clang. He looked down into the Badymonid valley.
"Holy cow." Lassoo was right. A gang of a hundred cowboys had just clocked on. They were going hell for leather digging a trench, laying the pipe in and covering it over. It was rough work alright. He gave a low whistle to rouse his men. They clambered from their bedrolls and joined him. Doc Martins gave an indignant gasp. "That’s glossy black cockatoo habitat they’ve destroyed there. Where’s my six-shooter?"
"Steady on Doc. I’ve thought of a plan."
"What?"
"Them thar cowboys aren’t very clever. You can tell by the way they keep getting mixed up about which end of the shovels to hold."
"Mebbe". It was true. A small bunch of cowboys stood arguing and pointing, turning the shovel this way and that.
"See them thar signs going up the valley towards Dollarville saying THIS WAY TO DOLLARVILLE? Well, I reckon we should creep up in the night and move the signs back towards Coil Springs. And we get a U-Pipe and turn that darned pipeline right around pointing to Coil Springs. Them thar cowboys will be too thick to notice they’re laying that pipe straight back to the Badymonid River!"
The posse spat and scowled and thought. Then they threw their hats in the air. "Good idea Sheriff!"
"Mebbe."
A week later the newspaper headlines said TOWN SAVES RIVER FROM DUFFERS! There was a big hoedown in the Great Southern Central Grand Railway Hotel. Danny Saloon brought out his squeezebox and the town danced until dawn. Chet Chuck leaned against the bar, narrowing his eyes. Susannah Gunnah leaned towards him and gave him a blue-eyed smile. "I think vinyl chaps look much better than leather. Don’t you Sheriff?"
He downed his whiskey.
"Mebbe".