The photo on the front had burned an image into his brain. A male model stood in cowboy posture, a Clint Eastwood steely-eyed glare glinting from beneath the brim of his Zorro hat.
It appeared that moths had eaten the collar off his shirt. He wore a duster that was sort of a cross between Jim Bridger’s old trapping coat and Santa Ana’s parade uniform. Mr. Moses guessed it weighed more than a wet hallway carpet. There was an odd collection of gold chains, buttons, military pins, silver boot toe tips, training spurs and epaulettes decorating his wardrobe. He looked like a Korean General just returned from a Rotarian’s convention.
Mr. Moses imagined himself dressed like the cowboy on the cover of the catalogue, jangling out to feed the cows and break ice. Him hangin’ his giant rowel and jingle bob on the twine as he kicked a bale off the back of the flatbed. Being jerked flat into the muddy rut, cows tromping giant footprints on the tail of his coat, the dog running off with his pancake hat. Then rising, sodden and trudging off rattling and clanging like a Moroccan bride with a limp.
“Shoot,” he said, “I couldn’t even walk up to a horse dressed like that.”
Mr. Moses considers himself a Carhartt cowboy...
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