#cowboys

It’s that time again….I’m earlier than usual so good on me ig Cowboys, dragons, D&D, and this time weirdos from hit game Outlast Trials. Stop on by gang :)

Friends with him the way two cowboys on a cold night might put their sleeping bags closer together than the would with someone else

hey cowboy icons cowboy overlays resources by me - everything found on pinterest

Western art by Jordi Penalva

I’ll be back by sunup!

John Behan was a lawman and politician who served as Sheriff of Cochise County, AZ, during the gunfight at the O.K. Corral and was known for his opposition to the Earps. That opposition and his role would be factors in his not being re-elected. He died on June 7, 1912. More on John Harris Behan – 1st Sheriff of Cochise County, Arizona: https://legendsofamerica.com/law-johnbehan/

De laatste cowboy van de leesportefeuille Pieters’’ Daglicht over Denkdingen Er zijn van die gesprekken die volstrekt onschuldig beginnen. Zo begon het op een warme vakantiedag ergens tussen een stokbrood, een glas rosé en een campingstoel die al drie keer gerepareerd was met tie-wraps en goede bedoelingen. “Las jij vroeger eigenlijk veel?” Een eenvoudige vraag. Maar sommige vragen zijn als een vergeten luik in een oude zoldervloer.… De laatste cowboy van de leesportefeuille

yeehaw bucko

Yeeeehawwwwwww I love cowboys Neigh lasso hat boots cowboy yeeeehawwwww

Me: “No mom, cowboys were actually a little progressive” Mom: “Well yeah, you put some guys alone up in the countryside for a week and they get very progressive very fast. I’ve watched Brokeback Mountain” Ok well that’s not what I meant but yeah

Despite them insisting its not necessary, I feel its not fair to have a birthday acknowledgement and have everyone else go without. So! A happy belated birthday to Herman , January 31, 42 years old Mine, February 15, 40 years old A happy belated birthday to Juniper , March 23, 23 years old A happy belated birthday to Arnold , April 24, 39 A happy belated birthday to Clarence , May 4, 22 years old A happy belated birthday to Terrance , June 3, 29 years old And so that they won’t be forgotten: A happy early birthday to Bruce , July 5, will be 37 A happy early birthday to Bob , August 9, will be 37 A happy early birthday to our boss , August 23, will be 37 A happy early birthday to Garry , September 14, will be 35 A happy early birthday to Larry , October 30, will be 35

Dinosaurs and cowboys…TOGETHER AT LAST! Artwork by Val Mayerik

Any cowboys out there into alt girls? ❤️

Just watched cowboys(2020) #cried

convincing you to attack me this art fight by posting edits of my characters!! my user is pigeongoesvroom over there too :P my fav butch femme cowboy duo by @fruity-pontmercy and me!! both Esme and Milena will be my characters during art fight :P

APRIL 4TH, 1956! ── 1,118 words. [19.04.25] I. Our brothers are playin’ in the creek just shy of old Mr. Sawyer’s house. If you listen close, you can hear ’em squealin’ like spring piglets; they ain’t yet realised they’s waterbabies. Too busy chasin’ the bluegills up stream, crushin’ frogspawn between tiny toes in alla the excitement. You should be with ’em, watchin’ the stag beetles mosey on through the mildew. Sun’s playin’ hopscotch on yer body, workin’ creek-spray outta yer dress. Still, a couple tiny droplets race from yer bent knees down yer thighs. Farmboys workin’ Mr. Sawyer’s fields whoop an’ holler, try stealin’ a look at the way yer white cotton panties cling on yer hip bones. Pay ’em no mind; a ripple of liver-spotted green goes creepin’ through the chaos. Then it happens: a ray bounces offa the water jus’ right, an’ the pike’s scales throw a prism over the slick rocks. You fancy that a nicer view then any set’a spread legs. II. ‘Cept Mama ain’t lettin’ you, not after you sliced yer foot up on that rock. Says, the creek ain’t no place fer a young lady! Instead, yer layin’ beneath the sycamore, branches splittin’ shadows across yer skin. Couple’a rays come slinkin’ between the leaves to kiss yer cheeks. Feels nice, don’t it? Looks like the parakeets are enjoyin’ it, too. Blue banded tails flutterin’ inside the late mornin’ shine, hurlin’ loose green feathers into the breeze. Far as you know, they’s been nestin’ here since Daddy was a boy. Once, you asked how they got here. Mama told you they’s varmints, always been here an’ always will be . But that ain’t the case; the Mayor released a breedin’ pair on accident, sent Adam an’ Eve Sswoopin’ into our garden like it’s some kinda Eden. Seems they like that version better than Mama’s, cause a pea-coloured tuft comes floatin’ down. Fer a moment, it’s arcin’ an’ coilin’ round nothin. Finally, it settles on yer chest. A smile splits yer face. Seems you like it too. III. You ain’t to go hatin’ Mama fer it, though; the chicken feed has ’em swarmin’ her like locusts. Must think they’s hens too, ’cause they’s nosedivin’ straight outta the sycamore toward the grain. Gleams like wheatbacks strewn in the dirt, don’t it. Yer gigglin’ ’cause Mama looks like she’s square-dancin’ tryin’ to scare ’em off without startlin’ the girls. Skirt ripplin’ round her ankles, shoutin’ shoo!, an’ go on, git y’filthy varmints! ’fore her ankle goes west an’ –– there she goes! Better wipe that grin offa yer face quick, Shug; if she sees you laughin’ at her, she’s gon’ raise snakes. Quick, quick! She’s comin’. You bow yer head, curls fallin’ in a blonde wave over yer face. Mama’s lips are quiverin’, pale pearls’a spit frothin’ in the corner. Seat’a her dress is dark with dew, spattered with soil an’ blades’a grass. Cast iron starts clangin’ an’ wobblin’ in the kitchen. Don’t go worryin’, she’ll settle to simmer. But listen, if yer quiet enough that apple pie coolin’ on the ‘sill’s good as ours… There’s a silly twinkle in yer eye when you start slinkin’ over. IV. ’Cause Mama makes ’em best. Latticed butter-crusts raisin’ up like sunflowers in June, scent’a cinnamon waftin’ so far even the rancher’s boys can smell it. We’s got the best smellin’ ’sill fer miles, everyone says so. Sometimes, she’ll sell a slice to the Sunday School nippers fer a wheatie. Ain’t much, but she’s savin’ fer one of them new skillets. Yer belly’s fulla spices an’ gooey apple slices by the time Daddy comes trudgin’ up the path. The boys are on his tail, soaked an’ fulla mud arguin’ ’bout how big that trout they’s seen today was. It was this big! No, it was this big! while Daddy’s takin’ off his hat to shoo away the lightnin’ bugs. He’s jus’ settin’ ’em straight; they’s flecks’a sun stayin’ up past bedtime. Then he’s herdin’ us inside. Minute he’s through the door, spurs clunkin’ an’ chafin’ the varnish, Mama’s pokin’ her head outta the kitchen. Y er trekkin’ mud all over the damn place. Boys never learn, Shug, ’cause instead’a apologisin’, Daddy goes goddamnit woman, quit yer bellyachin’! Mama blinks. The hell did you jus’ say to me? You figure he ain’t gonna be fond’a them apples. V. Yer right; the arguin’ don’t stop fer what seems like years . Mama’s threatenin’ Daddy with the doghouse, an’ yer scared that means you ain’t gettin’ no kiss goodnight. You ain’t never been fond’a the dark, so we’s both sittin’ in yer room countin’ the stars. At some point, you see an opossum passin’ through. Six babies are hangin’ offa her back, writhin’ over one another like snakes tryin’ to get the best spot’a fur. A bee starts buzzin’ in yer bonnet ‘cause you perk up, say you wanna have that many babies with the McKinley’s boy from down Dewberry Lane. Don’t matter he ain’t got no Pa. Gotta keep that to yerself, Shug, unless you want Daddy takin’ his shotgun offa the wall an’ pumpin’ that boy fulla buckshot. But ’s all you wanna talk about, all y’are talkin’ about ’till yer slumped over with yer head in my lap. So much fer that goodnight kiss, huh? Outside, the crickets are chirpin’ away, and a couple’a moths flutter ’round yer window. Don’t go worryin’ about ’em in yer dreams; Mama’s stopped givin’ Daddy hell. Once he knows the boys are settled in some sorta puppy pile, he’ll come give you that kiss an’ pull the curtains. You ain’t the type to stir, so when he picks you up real slow, yer head jus’ lulls into his chest fer a second. Look jus’ as sweet as you did when he held you fer the first time. I pull back yer sheets, an’ he settles you in nice, goes tuckin’ a couple baby curls away ’fore he slides Flopsy in under yer arm. C’mon now, Junebug . I ain’t sure why we’s creepin’ out, or why I’m closin’ the door real slow ’cause you could sleep through a twister. Ain’t got time to think on it though, ‘cause it’s my turn now: g’night honey , kiss on the head, then everythin’s Squiet. ‘Fore I lay down, I close my eyes real tight, and listen real hard. Fer a moment, there ain’t nothin but the sound’a critters settlin’ fer the night. But then I hear it: that crisp wind whistlin’ through the sycamore. Now, I ain’t sentimental, but I start wonderin’… VI. Maybe one day, when yer Mrs. McKinley with her six babies, and don’t care about playin’ by the creek no more, you’ll think about the day you sliced yer foot on that rock. Maybe then, you’ll finally hear the whistlin’ too.

MAGPIE! ── 993 words. [27.03.26] You was four, when we started callin you Magpie. Was a Sunday in 1954, an’ the chapel stunk like smoked oranges. Mama had you in yer best, a new pink frock with one’a them crin slips. I remember you lookin’ like a tiny, still buddin’ magnolia Mama’d pinned on her hip. Had folk jus’ about swarmin’ her to steal a look. Pretty as a petal , some feller’d said. Good thing they did; all Saturday Mama had that crin soakin’ in her favourite enamel pot. Bright, sunflower yellow in the middle that caramelised toward the edges. Took hours, hours , fer the crin to take an’ stiffen up. Sun was jus’ about settin’ when she fished it outta the pot an’ hung it to dry over an open umbrella. Reminds me of goin’ out dancin’ with yer daddy, alla this work, she’d said, but there sure as hell ain’t nothin’ better than a fresh petticoat. Then she fixed the red kerchief tied round her head, an’ went back to cookin’ dinner. Think she would’a raised snakes ’f they didn’t notice after alla that. Course, you didn’t care you put every other Sunday school nipper to shame. All you did was ache yer tiny belly sayin’ how itchy it were. Didn’t matter, though, jus’ made ’em all the fonder of you. I remember the Pastor’s wife pinchin’ yer cheeks till they looked sunburnt, sayin’ oh! She’s gon’ be the finest belle fer miles. Mama agreed, and they laughed like they was only girls themselves. That put Mama in one’a the sweetest moods. When we was leavin’, she looked at me with a smile so bright it put sunshine to shame. Could hear the life in her when she said, fancy helpin’ yer ol’ lady make a cobbler when we’s home? Deep down, I knew she jus’ wanted to use that pot again, but I weren’t complainin’ about bakin’ instead’a Sunday chores. That day, the walk home didn’t feel so tirin’ no more. At home, Mama let you go play on the rope swing by the sycamore. Daddy’d finished makin’ it fer you a couple days ago, but only after hearin’ you beg fer round about a month of Sundays. Somethin’ about Irene’s daddy makin’ her one so you needed one. Last I saw, you was havin’ the time of yer life. We started by choppin’ up the dewberries I’d taken you pickin’ a couple days earlier. Diced ’em real fine then sucked the juice offa my fingers when Mama weren’t lookin’. Maybe me an’ you weren’t so different afterall, huh? Then, I tipped ’em into the sunflower pot. Brought ’em to that soft, rollin’ boil an– my God. Whole ranch smelled so bright, so tart, my mouth couldn’t help start waterin’. Guess that happens every time though; we ain’t never made a bad pie. In fact, Mama always hadta make round about four since the ranchers boys’d come by beggin fer a slice. ’S how she saved up fer her pot in the first place, y’see. Two-bit a slice and a year’s worth’a patience goes a long way. Today weren’t no different; Mama’d set her eyes on one’a them fancy new skillets. Anyways, she’d had me butterin’ all four of her aluminium pie tins, wonderin’ whether our sill looked better with all four latticed butter crusts oozin’ dewberry, or glimmerin’ with tiny two-bit steppin stones ’fore she started shoutin’. Damn near blew out my ear drums, I recognised what she was sayin’. Goddamnit, Margaret! Get outta the pig pen! And there you was, sight enough to gag a maggot: head to toe in wallow, not a slither of pink in sight. Nellie was snufflin’ round yer ankles, and when she brought her head up, she snorted a fresh coat of wallow onto the seat’a yer dress. Nellie! You giggled like a tinglin’ windchime. Almost had me smilin’ ’fore Mama slammed down her rollin’ pin. I guess Nellie didn’t look like much more than a poundage of pork an’ lard that weren’t even worth bein’ stunned at the time, cause I could see her lips shudderin’ like the sunflower pot’s lid. Thank God Daddy’d left the sledgehammer down at the barn. Next time I looked, you was climbin’ up onto the fence fer purchase. Y’leaned forwards, words whistlin’ through the gap yer front baby tooth’d left. Mama, look! A wheatie! I remember squintin’ real hard. You certainly was holdin’ a wheatback; could jus’ about see them wheat stems sproutin’ from Lincoln’s steel back like wings. I tried not laughin’, honest to God I did. Only stopped when Mama smacked me upside the head. I squared myself away real quick. Beau , Mama spoke slow, like she was pickin’ her words carefully, go get yer magpie of a sister outta the pig pen. I did as I was told. Walked straight outta that front door without darin’ to look back, hollered somethin’ along the lines of alright now, missy, c’mere. Y’gave Nellie one last scritch behind one’a her floppy, pink ears an’ hopped outta the sty. Next thing I knew, I had a whirlwind’a pink an’ mud jumpin’ straight into me, arms slingin’ round my neck. May as well’ve been a pig yerself. Look , an’ you was already pushin’ that wheatback straight into my face, says nine–teen forty four! I managed to shift some’a the wallow away with my thumb. Sure as sin, you’d found a forty four steel in our sty. I’m gon’ give it to Mama to sell, you said, snatchin’ it back offa me. Then, you hacked a wad’a saliva into yer mouth. Spat it straight onto the penny’s surface to shine it off on yer frock. ’Fore I could say that didn’t do much fer cleanin’, you was talkin’ again. Then she can make more pies. An’ buy me a new rockin’ horse. I laughed. Some full, bright kinda thing I didn’t know I had in me. Y’know what, Magpie? I think Mama’ll like that.