The cowboy in front of me waves. He’s holding a wooden spear in his other hand.

I stop drumming, so I can hear him better.

“Howdy, pardner,” he says. “Where’re y’all from?”

“Earth. Uhhh, Wisconsin. How about you?”

“Born and bred in the Republic of Texas. You here to cause trouble? If y’are I figure we best get it out of the way.” He doesn't talk very fast.

“No, sir. Just out exploring this new world. And drumming. I got this cool new khol drum. It’s tuned ...”

He interrupts: “What brings you to these here parts?”

“I got kinda lonely. Two months without seeing any other people is kinda long. Is this where you live now?”

“I been homesteadin’ here. Put together a bit of a shack, and got a nice huntin’ area in the forest. Lotta varmints.”

“Is there anything dangerous I need to watch out for?”

“Couple pigs. A bear. Both of those are good eatin’, even if ya don’t need to any more.”

“I’ve never had bear before. But I’ve liked pretty much every kind of pig I’ve ever had.”

“Well, you’re only the third feller I’ve seen this past month. I figure if ya wanna fight, you’ll tell me. Care for a bite o’ bear-bee-cue? I only been at this homestead a month, so I ain’t got much, but you’re welcome to share.”

“No fighting for me. Some food would be great, man. Thanks.”

The old cowboy brings me back to his cabin a mile off. He’s not short like old folks usually are: six-three or so, but he’s more or less square, nearly as wide as he is tall. Skin looks like dark leather, and he’s wearing what you might expect: Jeans, boots, a white tee shirt under a Pendleton, and a big white cowboy hat. If I was betting, I’d call him sixty, from his salt and pepper hair.

As we get back to his cabin, I see that Mr. Cowboy has been a bit humble about what he’s done. He appears to have built a ten thousand square foot hunting lodge-looking log cabin from old-growth timber. The logs are thirty to a hundred feet long, a couple feet in diameter, and they're stacked one on top of another to make walls like some holo-star's show house.

“Dude, this place is amazing. I’ve never seen a place this big. You did it all yourself in the last month?”

“Well, kid, ya ain’t from Texas, are ya? Everything’s bigger in Texas. This’ll do until I find time to build the main house.”

“How’d you do it? If I knew anything about building houses, I’m sure it would take me 5 years to build this. And you did it in a month?”

He walks around back with me following. Sure enough, there’s a bear the same size as the Kong monkey strung up, cleaned and skinned. McCoy walks over to the bear, grabs a 200 pound-looking bear leg, pulls out a machete, and removes the leg in one swing. He then wanders over to what turns out to be a barbecue pit, opens the lid with one hand, and throws the leg in with the other.

“This ain’t much, kid. And it got a lot easier when that queer plant told me I could learn phytomancy. I can tell the trees when to fall over, how fast to grow, and which branches to drop. And I’m a lil' bit stronger than I was afore I left Texas.”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“You look like you could out-wrestle that bear you’re cooking.”

“Maybe I’ll try that with the next one. This time, I just chucked a rock at it. Same as that big monkey a month ago. Who’da thunk people’d go from huntin with guns back to throwin’ rocks? Chucked a rock or two at it. Knocked him silly. Took a sharpened stick I’d growed, and shoved it through it’s throat.”

“Sorry, son, I get goin’ on about huntin’. Me an ol’ Rusty had a lotta good times huntin'. He’d a snuffed up these bears real quick-like. Anyhow, forgot my manners. Ya wanna drink?”

“You have beer? Dude! You’re the man.”

“‘S a bit stronger than beer, kid.”

He meanders over to a big wooden box, opens it, and pulls out a wood cup full of something that turns out to be whiskey.

He gestures over to a wooden chair. He sits down on an uprooted stump that’s just the right height for a chair.

“How’d you manage to do all this in a month?”

“"Tain't nuthin special. I'm a country boy. A country boy can survive.”

“That's by Hank Williams Jr.”

“You know Junior?”

“I know Bill Marshall’s groove for the song. He was the drummer for the Bama Band. I can play it. Maybe sing it too. I don’t have Junior’s voice though.”

“Well I’ll be. When I was a kid I used to pick a guitar a bit. I don’t have one with me. It’d probably take me a few hours to whip up a guitar. You need a drum, or that one ‘round your neck gonna do?”

I pull the monkeybone guitar out of my pocket. I hand it to him, trade out the khol, and set up my rig.

“Well I’ll be durned. What’s your name, kid?”

“I’m Snake.”

“Tom Thompson. Nice to meet ya, Snake.”

“Likewise, Mister Thompson. I think there was a governor named that.”

“Not in Texas. And I never paid much attention to the little states. You any good on those things?” he asks, pointing to my drums.

“I was the drummer for Five Guys and Their Schticks.”

“Do I know that name? My niece used have a poster of a pretty boy on her wall. Green and black background. Was that your band?”

“That was JaM. He was our singer.”

“Well then, I expect yer pretty good.”

“What would you like to start with, Mister Thompson?”

“You know Ghost Riders in the Sky?”

“The original Stan Jones one? The Highwaymen? The Outlaws? They have a better drum line.”

“I don’t know none of that. I’ll play the guitar. You join in with the drums. We can both sing.”

Ghost riders in the sky was once listed as the best country song ever written. Recorded more or less every year since it was written in 1949. So many versions even I can’t keep them all straight. I kinda like the drums on the Devildriver version. But that's not so good for this old man. I play the Outlaws version.

Old man isn’t bad on the guitar. Kinda country. But the song likes his twang.

We play that, then “A Country Boy can Survive.” A few more songs by Junior. Some by The Highwaymen. A couple from Willie. This dude’s all ancient turn-of-the-century country.

Before i know it, it’s late afternoon, my moonshine is gone, and Mister T is getting up.

“Yer better’n any drummer I ever saw, Kid. Call me Tom. Lemme see what you can do without this old man slowin’ ya down.”

I play “We Will Rock You,” as a good voice and drums song. Then a Peart solo. And then I use my marimba with my tail as my best guitar substitute, as I play Simple Man by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Seems his speed.

Tom serves us dinner of Texas BBQ bear. It’s far more tender than I’d have thought. There’s a nice barbeque sauce as well.

After dinner, there’s more moonshine, and a little more music, as it sneaks up on night-time. At dusk, I watch him head out into the field behind his mansion, and come back with a bunch of cotton or something and a tree on his shoulder. Twenty minutes later he’s put together a bed, including the mattress and pillow, from raw materials. He carries it off to a different room.

“Can I offer you a place to spend the night, kid?” he asks when he comes back.

“Do you mind if I drum a bit at night? I don’t sleep much these days.”

“Once I’m asleep, I sleep like the dead. Gimme twenty minutes, then do your thang. Don’t play my house down on toppa me.”

“Thanks.”

“Good night, kid.”