You know, I was thinking of something last night, and I wish to God I could find the original source.
When I was a little lad, I had a book of a child's versions of Nebraska folklore. It had a yellow cover, and a rough sketch of a cowboy riding a bison.
There was one story in there, Cowboy Frank and Artist Robbie, but I can't recall all the details. It's been a very long time since I was a little lad, after all.
Anyway, this particular story was placed circa 1870, when one day Artist Robbie, from the eastern coast, stepped off the Union Pacific express at North Platte or Ogallala or Sidney, I forget which. Artist Robbie was all got up with a fancy flamboyant chapeau, ruffles on his shirt, lace on his cuffs, high-stepping patent-leather shoes.
Cowboy Frank, a clean, handsome, pleasant young man, happened to be walking along the depot platform, and spied Artist Robbie. Being of a friendly nature, Cowboy Frank sauntered over to the easterner, extending his hand in friendship, welcoming him to Nebraska.
Artist Robbie sneered upon seeing Cowboy Frank, his nose drooping and dripping in disgust. Just a hayseed, a hick, a nobody, the easterner thought.
Of course, this was 1870, and Nebraska was still brand-new; there hadn't been time enough for anyone to be born and raised in Nebraska. Everybody in Nebraska was from the east. In the case of Cowboy Frank, a graduate of Harvard, in Greek and Romance Languages.
Well, the aloof Artist Robbie didn't want to have anything to do with Cowboy Frank, and spurned the proffered hand of friendship.
However, Cowboy Frank, being a nice guy, decided he'd better keep his eyes on the easterner, to be sure he didn't get into any trouble, and to extricate him if he did.
After which followed a whole series of near-catastophes for Artist Robbie; trying to pay for whiskey with a counterfeit $20 bill, dealing cards in a poker game with a marked deck, trying to steal a horse-and-carriage from the livery-stable, flirting with the saloonkeeper's daughter, rustling cattle, being tied down on the railway tracks in front of an approaching train, those sorts of predicaments.
It was a narrow escape every time, but Cowboy Frank got nothing but contemptuous ingratitude for his pains.
Finally, one night Artist Robbie decided to visit the most notorious madam in town.
Cowboy Frank, knowing her history, advised Artist Robbie such wasn't a good idea, as she gave men diseases respectable people don't get.
Artist Robbie however didn't listen.
When in the bedroom with the notorious madam, the easterner took off all his clothes, the sight at which the red-headed madam suddenly broke out in uncontrollable laughter and mirth at the sight, chortling and giggling as all get out.
Humiliated, Artist Robbie ran outdoors from the bawdy-house, and still in his birthday suit, collided with one of those wooden barrels of liquid tar. All tarred up, he rolled into a nearby chicken coop, the aroused hens smearing him with feathers as they ran away.
The self-tarred-and-feathered easterner got up, just about the same time a whole tribe of Sioux warriors, decked out in paint and warbonnets, riding horses, came down main street. Seeing Artist Robbie, and mistaking him for one of their dread enemies, the Pawnees, the warriors whooped it up, pulled out their tomahawks, and chased him way out into the Sandhills.
Alas, that's all I remember of the story, which was a child's version of Nebraska folklore. I wish I could find that book.
