Before I opened the car door I took a last look at myself in the rear view mirror: sunglasses, baseball style cap and enough stubble to convey that I had recently come in from the wilds. I was prepared to make an entrance and didn't want to look foolish.

Just as I opened the door I realized that I had forgotten something and with one foot already on the pavement twisted back into the cab to…accidentally set off the intruder alarm. I immediately pulled the key out of the ignition and re-inserted it, with no results. The horn blared incessantly, causing the two dozen buckaroo eyeballs to swivel under their hats in my direction. In a blur I locked, unlocked, opened and closed every door and window in a futile effort to shut off the alarm. The explorer looked like a giant purple bug trying to fly as the assembled buckaroos delighted in this tourist's plight. They belly-laughed, slapped at the café windows, occasionally spitting out coffee and scrambled eggs as my dilemma continued.

Each second seemed like an hour as many long minutes passed. My brow was fraught with sweat, my hands shaking as I continued to pull and push on any button or lever in sight. After ten minutes of having to listen to the constant honking I opened the hood to find and disable the horn. First, I had to find the horn.

If you haven't looked under the hood recently, it's worth a gander. Thought I could hear the horn all too clearly, I could not readily identify a likely candidate. All I could see were foil, electrical harnesses, pullies and more foil…In all likelihood the horn was the size of a dime and located inside the front left tire. The engine seemed to be under the foil, but I didn't have the time to investigate. Foiled again.

Then it came to me. I recognized something…the battery. All I had to do was disconnect it and the shrill, strident sounds of horn would be silenced.

I pride myself for being prepared for all manner of minor emergencies. With this in mind I went down a mental checklist: gloves, screwdriver, pliers, hammer…none of which I had remembered to pack. In a fit of desperation, not unduly prompted by a quick glimpse of a dozen howling buckaroos pounding on their tables, all weak with laughter, I grabbed the battery cable with both hands and shook the battery as if it were a flyswatter. Against all odds I succeeded and the alarm fell silent. It was during this pregnant pause that I heard footsteps approach me from behind.

"Say, 'feller, couldn't help but notice your deal 'goin on here. Had the same thing happen to me once…nothin' I'd do would shut it off, so's I took some wire cutters and went at it." The grandfatherly cowboy then added: "I did a littl' snippin', then I did a lot. Sure did shut it down, though the car never ran again. Sure did hate that horn, though…"

With that said the Cowboy smiled, turned and went back inside the café. From outside I was sure that there wasn't a dry eye under them hats, so I walked away from the car with a purposeful stride toward a mom and pop grocery, there to walk around until I was sure that Buckaroos had boogied.

I am sometimes accused of being paranoid and perhaps it's somewhat true, but I could have sworn that every time I saw two or three Buckaroos meet on the street that day I would hear "honk, honk, honk…" then watch as the assembled tugged on their buckles and bent over in a fit. It was a long day, even though I only spent two hours in town.

When I got home later in the week I relayed the event to my wife. She listened, then seemed incredulous. When I questioned her, she replied flippantly: "All you had to do was to press the reset on the key chain remote." As my eyes widened and eyebrows raced skyward she added: "guess I forgot to give you the remote…"

(Lance, the Western Edition, may be found riding the ridge on the Internet. If you got a beef, or just want to poke a little fun and say "howdy", you can punch him up by typing: lance@journalist.com).