I actually began writing Westerns quite early in life. One of my surviving childhood manuscripts, titled Casey’s Cow, could probably be termed my first. I don’t recall exactly how old I was when I wrote it, but based on the age of the heroine, and the fact that I remember typing it on our big old Gateway desktop computer, I’m guessing I was around ten. This was the era when—likely influenced by a diet of American Girl books—I was convinced that fictional ten-year-old girls could save the day in any situation. The first lines ran thus:It was sunrise at Lenisor Ranch. The sun cast a golden glow over the corrals and stables. The big white house was nearly hidden by trees, but some of the sun’s magic reached the glittering glass windowpanes. And now in the distance noises. Hundreds of hooves trampling. And cows bawling.
Ten-year-old Casey Lenisor, still half asleep, rolled over in bed. Suddenly she was wide awake. She ran to the window and peered into the distance. Yes! Her uncle’s cattle drive was returning!
I was also evidently convinced that short sentences equaled drama. Much drama.
Reading back over Casey’s Cow in recent years, I was actually rather surprised by the decent command of language I had at age ten. Reading Dickens at a young age must have helped. There aren’t any laughably terrible spelling or grammar errors; it’s the plot and characters, and more particularly the author’s calm assumption that it’s all perfectly realistic, that make the manuscript hilarious.
Anyhow, Casey lived on her uncle’s Montana ranch along with her mother and younger siblings; her father, for reasons unfathomable, was off driving stagecoaches for the Butterfield Overland Mail Company. (“I wish I could stay to help Dan brand the new calves, but I must go,” he had said.) Over the course of the four chapters that are extant—I think that’s as far as I got—Casey acquired a pet calf named Vermilion, which of course she roped and branded herself; befriended a (very) young cowboy from her uncle’s outfit; fended off the attack of a panther; and wished for something unusual to happen. In the fourth chapter the bank was robbed, evidently fulfilling her wish.
“The bank?” exclaimed Casey in disbelief. The bank, indeed! The building in question was built of strong logs, and to Casey’s mind, impenetrable (except when you walked in the door).
The manuscript ends with Casey heading off to find the architect who designed the bank to ask him whether there was a secret passage. As nearly as I can recall, the remainder of the story was intended to be occupied by detective work, and would end with Casey solving the mystery of the bank robbery, assisted in some important way at the climax by her calf.
Did I mention it was also meant to be the first in a series? There’s fragments of a few other stories in my folder of childhood efforts, and Casey’s Cow, in spite of its unfinished state, included an optimistic list of future titles (Casey’s Journey, Casey Earns Her Way, Casey Back East, Casey at Sea, and so forth).
I suppose in the long run, we may be glad that the rest of Casey’s Cow is lost to history. It does have its positives, of course: it shows me how much I’ve learned in the fifteen years since. For instance, that cattle drives don’t return to the home ranch, with newborn calves in tow; and that maple trees are not a notable feature of the Montana landscape. And it’s good for an occasional hearty laugh.
This little piece was written in 2015 off a prompt of “dialogue about fireworks.”