Church goin’ was a big part of a cowboy’s life. He would probably have been raised by a god-fearing family with a mother that made sure he was conversant with what was in the good book whether he could read or not. A few of these cowboys could read some and would check the book every once in a while to see if they was stayin’ on the straight and narrow. Others could recite a few psalms that had been drummed into their heads sometimes with the aid of a wooden spoon, especially if they was wool gatherin’ of a Sunday morning instead of payin’ attention.

Church played a lot of different roles in a cowboy’s life. First if he was a hard-core sinner and had a lot to answer for he could go there and get some sort of relief by the promise of salvation if only he would change his wicked ways. Which he always promised his self that he would if given another chance.

Plus sittin’ in church meant he didn’t have to do any chores at the moment so he could relax and socialize a little. Socializing was always a big part of Sunday morning after the service was over. All you had to do was sit through the Reverend’s sermon and try not to think of what brimstone was. You knew what fire was but brimstone, that must be some damn awful stuff. If you made it that far you was home free. You’d gotten enough salvation that there was the possibility of redemption, or least making it through til next Sunday, plus there was that big feed the ladies of the women’s auxiliary put on. Ham and at least thirty pounds of mashed potatoes with ham gravy and biscuits and all kinds of side dishes. A man could plumb hurt himself eatin’ out there under the cottonwoods.

Course one of the biggest reason to go to church was the side benefit of gettin’ to say hello to several of the young ladies who always came to church. It was a wonder that they came there so often-like, because what horrible kind of sinful life had they been livin’ that they needed churchin so bad. A cowboy you could understand, he was most likely sinnin’ as he walked out of the bunkhouse every mornin’ and that was just the start of the day. A man could pile up a powerful stack of sins in a long day. But what could a young girl do who didn’t even chew, let alone spit that would make her attend church that regular. It was certainly something to ponder throughout the week.

Because you had the possibility of talking with that farmer’s daughter, the one with the blond hair and that one dimple in her left cheek every Sunday, you needed to be looking like a successful cowboy, not one of those down at the heels type that wore his work clothes to church. It was well know that young women could not abide scruffy lookin’ cowboys so if you was any kind of man at all you saved up til you could get some church goin’ clothes, and of course that included a new fancy hat that you only wore to church.

Slicked back hair, new shirt, brushed off boots, and a washin’ out at the rain barrel and you was ready for the day. Course it went without sayin’ that the new hat was front and center as it said who you really  was. His work hat, the one left back at the bunkhouse, sweat-stained, hole in the crown from being thrown through the barb-wire fence out at the line cabin, was a beat-up old felt hat with a Montana Crease made famous by that Texas Ranger Gus McCrae. That one was as good as the best cattle workin’ dog a cowboy could have. It fit, it stayed on, you could use it to fan the fire back up under the coffee pot and it was paid for. This new one was right out of the 1910 Sears catalog and was what they was callin’ back east, a 10 gallon hat. That cowboy turned actor Tom Mix wore one in that movin’ picture show over in Sheridan and it looked pretty darn good. Besides that pretty little farmers daughter had been lookin’ at him wearin’ it and she even smiled a little. So it looked like it was worth the eight dollars he give for it.

Church was only seven days away again. Maybe next time he’d ask the young lady to go for a walk after the meal was over.