Tonto Speaks
For me, no more following
that beat-up trail, eating Silver’s
cloud of dust, trying to decipher
what the L.R.’s saying. Hard enough
to understand the white guy without his mask
but when he’s muffled up, darn near impossible.
Still I admit, it was a great ride while it lasted.
We did some serious good in our time.
Rescued a flock of distressed ladies, put plenty
sorry scoundrels in cages where they belonged,
had our share of excitement, and along the way
we scattered beaucoup silver bullets.
Never failed to confuse the muddle-headed
townsfolk. “Who was that masked man?”
Wouldn’t you think they’d have figured it out?
But that was then. Hi-Yo-Silver threw his last shoe
at a Wild West show in Searchlight, Nevada,
the underbelly of Las Vegas, on Feb. 19, 2003.
The L.R. scraped up just enough cash to pay off
me and Scout. We parted finally outside the Circle K
on Sunday morning, 3 a.m.. I watched him go. I tell you
on my honor, Kemosabe, he never slowed down.
If you’re wondering, old Tonto’s ok. Me and Scout,
we caught a ride back to the reservation we started from
outside Detroit. Scout got a gig in a petting zoo and
me, I’m calling Keno numbers in the smartest casino
in southern Michigan. No more spitting dust; no more
sitting on rocks chewing stew from a mess kit, smoke
in my face; no sleeping under a saddle blanket, one eye
open
checking for critters. Not much of that I miss any more.
I have my scrapbook, old photos, clippings
about the L.R. and me, wrong in some details
but all in all, we had our fifteen minutes of fun.
Some things still rankle though. I wake up wondering
who’s watching his backside, who makes sure
the fire is really out when he breaks camp, who walks
old Silver at the end of the day so he won’t stiffen up
and go lame. Old habits are hard to break. Do you suppose
he ever looks back to see if I’m there?
— Janet Winans