“That one was given to a man when he retired from the Illinois Railroad in 1891,” said the man. He looked as if someone had opened a time continuum and he’d just left 1891. He wore jeans, suspenders, and a real cowboy hat.

Thin, with longest white beard I’d seen in awhile, I thought how easy it would be for him to take the stage with ZZ Top and no one would be the wiser.

“How much?” I asked.

“I’d have to have $750 for that one,” he said.

We were looking at pocket watches he was selling.

I turned the railroad watch over and there was a faded, gold inset of a steam locomotive. Its authenticity was not in doubt. This was an old watch, and it was worn.

“It’s key wound,” he said.

“Does it work?” I asked.

He seemed a tad incredulous, “They all work,” he responded.

I glanced through the rest of the glass cases he had on his table. It looked as if someone had looted part of the Smithsonian. All of his items were valuable.

Most market shows I go to these days aren’t selling many antiques any longer. People now sell everything from homemade jerky to gold chain by the inch.

I’d just passed a display where a woman was selling ceramic knives and a cucumber peeler that she guaranteed to be the fastest I would ever own.

“What about this watch?” I asked.

“Oh, that one is special,” he said with a smile that shifted his entire beard. “That one was given by Buffalo Bill Cody to one of the Indian chiefs in his Wild West show. I’d have to have $2,000 for that one.”

I know a little about Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. Sitting Bull was with the show for one year in 1885. He left the show and went back to his people, where he was killed by the army during an attempt to arrest him.

If this was a watch given to Sitting Bull by Buffalo Bill Cody, it was worth every bit of $2,000. Probably more.

I’m often skeptical when people tell me stories such as this one. But, this fella seemed old school. A straight shooter.

I liked him.

My buddy and I were the only ones looking at the old guy’s merchandise. His booth wasn’t in the best location. It was against a back wall and not in the highest traffic area.

“Tell me more about what all you have in your cases,” I said.

That request would keep us talking for another 45 minutes. I could tell that he enjoyed sharing his years of acquired knowledge. I also suspected that he had at least 30 years on me and that it wasn’t often that someone my age expressed interest in or could converse about pocket watches, small pistols, or old law enforcement memorabilia.

He had a separate glass case full of old badges. There was a marshal’s badge from Denver, Colorado. A deputy’s badge from New Mexico. Much of the old west was represented there. The case was full. I didn’t ask for prices. I knew they would be out of my range.

He showed me watch fobs. He told me the provenance for many, one of which had a storyline that loosely traced all the way back to President Andrew Jackson.

I asked if he made any of the other shows in the area. “Let me check,” he said.

He fished a pile of worn cards from his wallet and thumbed through them. He didn’t need a calendar on an iPhone. His simple scheduling system seemed to have served him fine for decades.

“I’ll be in Dallas at Market Hall on September 25 and 26,” he said.

“I’ve really enjoyed talking with you. I’m John Moore. Tell me your name,” I said as we shook hands.

“I could tell you my name,” he said. “But no one ever uses it. Just call me ‘Cowboy.’ Everybody does.”

I turned and walked with my friend back through a few more rows of the market, but nothing much else had any appeal for me. I bought some jerky and cheese and purchased 10 chances on a hunting rifle to support a local law enforcement fundraiser.

I passed the lady who was still hawking her cucumber peeler. But I kept thinking about Cowboy.

My buddy said, “You know, he’s been around forever. I remember him at the shows in Dallas when I was a teenager.”

“Did he look like that back then?” I asked.

“Exactly the same, except for the hair and beard are now gray,” he responded.

I envy people like Cowboy. Most of us don’t love what we do for a living. We work because we have to.

I suspect that he has never considered what he does work. And the coolest thing of all, is that they call him “Cowboy.”

©2016 John Moore
To read additional blogs, visit johnmoore.net/blog