“He rode into town from ages past, one of a kind, he was the last, his steed of choice was a pickup truck, he was looking for either a fight or a – ”
“Hey!” the saber-tooth tiger broke in. “You want to write a song about me, fine. Just keep it clean. And accurate. I don’t even own a pickup truck.”
“It’s a country song,” the bison retorted. “It’s gotta have prison, a pickup truck, and your mama in it.”
“Here’s a better idea. Sing about something else. Talbot’s Peak doesn’t need to hear ‘The Ballad of Steel Saber.’ That’s not even my real name.”
“Got a great ring to it, though. A real cowboy-hero name. Anyway, nobody can pronounce your real name. The language went extinct soon after you did.”
“Don’t remind me,” the tiger growled. “Any leads on the books yet?”
“That’s why I’m writing the song, bro. Landed a gig at that bar in the woods. The trees whisper the owner has his thumb in quite a few disreputable pies. Spirit books go missing and turn up in Montana, betcha he knows where. Wipe that look off your face. I’ll be discrete.”
“Sure you will.”
“Relax. I only charge headlong into things during rut. We’re months away from that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I got songs need writing’. You like this chord here, or should I save it for the end?”
“It all sounds the same to me. Listen, you can use Steel Saber if you have to. Just don’t mention the curse.”
“Bro! The curse is the hook! It’s the heart of the song! The last sabertooth cat in the world, cursed by a prehistoric shaman to wander the earth for eternity.”
“In the company of a bison who can’t keep his mouth shut.”
“You don’t like it, eat me.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.”
“Well, stop thinking. I’m too tough for even your fangs to rip into.” The bison tested a riff, and nodded. “Trust me, bro, it’ll work out fine. Nothing draws in the ladies like a tough man under a curse. Give you something to occupy your time while we’re looking for those books.”
“I’m not looking for companionship.”
“Good thing. Attitude like that, you won’t get any. You gonna be pissy, go run in the woods. I need to finish this. Maybe I can get some play on the local radio station.”
“As who? ‘Johnny Cashcow, the Bull in Black’? What the hell kind of stage name is that?”
“The kind that sounds country. Nobody’s going to turn out for a country singer named Rupert Frink. It’s all about image, bro. Excuse me, Steel.”
The renamed Steel Saber ripped off his shirt. “I’m going for that run.”
“Finally. You’re a real damper on the creative impulses.” Rupert adjusted a string and hummed the chorus to himself. “Trapped in the future, looking for the past, and the woman who’ll make him happy at last … ”
