Free Ghetto Cowboy by G. Neri Page B

The old guys smile like they know; some of the younger ones just shrug. “The Cowboy Way started because, back in the day, you couldn’t trust the law.”
    “Still can’t,” Tex pipes in.
    “Law was under the rule of the land barons. The sheriffs did what barons said and ignored the will of the people. So the cowboys had to take on their own brand of justice — cowboy justice. All that John Wayne stuff — you know, you can live outside the law as long as you’re honest and live by the code. Don’t steal nobody’s cattle or their women. Treat your horse like it was your best friend, because sometimes that’s all you got. Most important, trust and believe in your guys and always have their back when they need you.”
    The old-timers is nodding, saying
Amen
and
You got that right.
    “The Cowboy Way is, no matter what, never ever give up fighting when the chips are down. Real cowboys
never
give up,” Harp says, staring me down like he wants me to believe that.
    I look around, and it’s like one big family, everyone helping out and watching out for each other. And it feels like Harp now wants me there too.
    “Ain’t nothing changed,” says Jamaica Bob. “Cowboys still fighting to protect their ways in land wars where the bosses are trying to run ’em out. Only difference now is, the Chisholm Trail is a freeway today. We got to stick to our ways so that the young people have a safe place in this world, a place where the old values still count.”
    He raises his bottle, and even the younger guys yell out in agreement. We all raise our bottles too, and looking around at all these cowboys makes me feel like we in the Old West still.

O nce we back in the house, I stare out the window, thinking what would it be like to stay here and live the Cowboy Way. Hanging out with all of them, that might be all right. I could learn to ride, maybe teach other kids how to work at the stables, and I wouldn’t have to worry about school no more. I could just be a cowboy ’cause if you a cowboy, you do as you feel, not as you’re told.
    “You don’t have to sleep in the closet if you don’t want to.”
    I turn and see Harper staring at me. He scratches his head and says, “If you want to, you can sleep in my bed.”
    “With you?” I ask.
    He laughs. “Yeah, with me. I ain’t sleeping in the closet!”
    I laugh. Anything is better than that closet.
    That night, though, I can’t sleep. I lay there listening to Harper snore. Off in the distance I hear a gunshot, thumpin’ car music, and choppers in the air. I keep thinking about Mama and when she gonna show up and take me back so I can start summer school. But she seem farther away than ever.
    I don’t remember falling asleep, but Boo musta still been on my mind ’cause I had this dream where I was riding him along the Chisholm Trail. We was heading up to Detroit, rustling cattle and all. Harp and Tex and Jamaica Bob was there too. There was no cities, no loud cars, no gunshots. Only wide-open forever, as far as I could see. We sat around a fire at night, eating beans and such and listening to a cowboy named John Coltrane play his sax (I said it was a dream). The last thing I remember was coming to the end of the trail and seeing a big city off in the distance. Harper says to me, “There it is. That’s where your mama’s at.” But I don’t remember riding off to it.
    When I wake up, it’s still early. The clock says five thirty, and Harper’s dead asleep. I get up and look out the window. The rain has finally stopped, but everything feels like it’s drenched to the bone. I can see the Ritz-Carlton from here. That blue tarp, which I almost killed myself over, blew loose and is drooping down into the hole in the roof.
    Dag. I think of Boo again and suddenly feel like going to see how he holding up. I find my boots and coat and sneak out without waking Harper. I shush Lightning as I walk past. He ignores me.
    Outside, the stoop leads right into a lake. The whole