[dropcap]B[/dropcap]ack during my school and highschool days in that lazy town of Satakha, the one thing we looked forward to in the evening at 4:20 PM sharp was the Sema Gospel and love songs of Kikheto during his “Rocky” days, blaring through our transistor radios. And the books that we read were the ‘Western novels’ of Louis L’Amour and ofcourse those favorite black and white, wild west ‘western comics’.
Almost in all the stories, there would be those cowboy bounty hunters, or to be more precise, two types of bounty hunters. One type of those bounty hunters, without remorse, would hunt down stage-coaches, rob banks, engage in showdowns displaying the lightning speed of drawing their revolvers, revealing in the lingering smoke of their six round barrels as they slowly but surely blow it away after the kill, before pushopening the trademark two way mid-split door of the saloon to quench their thirst.
The other type of bounty hunters would only hunt down those staring down from the “wanted dead or alive” posters, hand them over dead or alive to the Sheriff, dust off his shirt and stonewashed jeans, wash his hands, water his horse, have a silent drink and leave town searching for the next poster. If the Sheriff is corrupt, he will find a way to let the captured “wanted” escape the noose, but that does not concern the bounty hunter anymore.Sometimes, the cowboy takes fancy of that girl behind the saloon counter, and if the girl reciprocates to that, that look or that grin of the cowboy, one thing leads to another and you find that bounty hunter of a cowboy, mending fences and happily settled down in that same town. Sometimes he is even given that badge of the Assistant Sheriff.
Oh! Those were the days. Any day, any time, I will happily trade all the technologies of today for those comics and the transistor radio.
Benito Z. Swu
Kuknalim.
