The cowboy's overriding presence in North America's mythology is not
difficult to understand.
Perhaps the great lone land ethos of endurance, stamina,
self-resourcefulness and "a man's got to do what a man's got to do,"
John Wayne brand of thoroughness, still endures more so than once
admitted. Talking in these terms usually elicits a responsive chord.
Everyone has felt that, at one time or the other, only his carabine
(wits) stood between him and the fate accorded to the Sundance Kid. As
life increases in complexity, in all probability there will be a
tendency to create myths or revive tales from the past to help blaze
trails. The westerner personifies close shaves with danger. So, too,
surviving in the corporate jungle implies a similar fixation in
manufacturing responsive heroes to see us through.
In one scenario, the setting of a gruelling contest at the managerial
level becomes "highnoon," for the Earp brothers. The plug uglies in the
vein of the Claytons are the bush-wackers waiting to play upon any
opening. The board room assumes the air of OK Corral with old Doc
Halliday leaning on the fence or a tombstone, if the exchange goes
dismally.
Most of us would naturally see little identification with the
Renaissance condottieri or mercenary or understand the Laager[1]
mentality of the white South African. Yet we do have some input into
what the bounty hunter is capable of or the ramifications of being
dry-gulched by an insensitive or unfeeling person. All have had to
cross their Badlands, ride roughshod above the timberline or grab for
cover to avoid a ricochet.
The two legged coyotes are still with us no matter how humanitarian we
might fancy ourselves.
The Ox-Bow Incident[2] can overtake most anyone, although the saying
"meeting one's Waterloo," seems at this writing more commonplace. In
ramrodding an outfit to market, or seeing a plan to completion, all
must stand clear of brackish water, wolfsbane and loco weed. Place
these symbolist terms in their updated context and you will understand
a hockey player's nickname "cowboy," and the slow irrelevance of that
veneer time.
A primeval instinct beckons through time to the campfire. And I suppose
a campfire logic might be said to exist in all of us. The thinking of
things out carefully over a second and third cup of coffee, cautious
self exploratory reasoning. Today, any job ad will still warn: "Only
the aggressive with a proven trail record need apply." Myths and more
myths, the saga makers are legends in their own time, recreating
themselves shamelessly.
It may be time to pull on the reins, but allow one last indulgence. Who
is the modern centurion? The town marshal finds his present niche in
foreman, boss man, supervisor(?) The heart is a lonely hunter and
amidst renegades, mavericks and poisoned water holes, the modern
Cincinnatus[3] or wagon-master will be found contending with an array
of tenderfoots, greenhorns and Jimson weeds up the Chisholm Trail
through the Cimarron to market.
Chiggers, jerky, sweat beetles and hardtack are but mementoes of this
earlier romantic interlude.
[1] The formation of a circle shaped wagon train to ward off danger at
the time of the Utilanders trek across the Transvaal to the Orange Free
State.
[2] Popular novel written in the early nineteen forties.
[3] Legendary Roman hero who safeguarded a vital bridge into the city
from the Etruscans.