Cowboys

Cowboys


"Thomas." The deep voice had some saw teeth in it. It was dad's voice. It had a demanding dignity.
Nick and I were standing at the Keller's front door. Tom had answered the door with his backpack in hand, and his face was bright with his usual enthusiasm. "Dad, I'm going camping with Nick. I'll be back Sunday night after dinner."
"Where are you going, son."
"Gallup"
"Are you going to another rodeo, Thomas?" The voice had more teeth. Trouble the three of us hadn't expected.
A small telling pause, and Tom replied, "I think maybe so."
"Thomas, come talk with me."
Tom put his pack down, looked at the floor, and reluctantly headed for the voice.
"Thomas, is Nick with the Walker boy ...the one you were with two weeks ago?" asked the voice. The voice was talking about me. Its tone was for the likes of a rat infestation.
"Thomas, those boys are not cowboys. You are not a cowboy. You were seriously hurt because you and your friends used poor judgment."
Nick and I were at the front door trying to weather this unexpected storm in silence, checking out the designs on the toes of our cowboy boots…with not so much as a sideways glance at one another. Each statement was true. Still, I was embarrassed and a little offended to be so easily dismissed, and to have my poor judgment proclaimed aloud. I found myself wondering how much of this overheard conversation Nick would report back in the car.
"But Dad....."
"Thomas, I want you to stay home."
Tom came trudging up the hall eyebrows raised, palms up, and shoulders shrugged.
"We’ll call you when we get back," I said in a resigned tone, and turned for the car. That fatherly voice was almost enough to fold our tent for this trip. Having escaped injury on our last outing, the rest of us had not been forced to reveal to our parents the details of the misadventure.
We reached the car. "Tom can't go," I said as Nick and I got in the back seat.
In the front seat, Bill was incredulous. "Why?" he said.
"His dad is afraid we'll get him hurt again. It was pretty final," I said, hoping Nick would keep a lid on the details of the conversation. We were all silent, just letting it soak in.
"At least we won't have to wait for his damn jeep to grind out a trip to Gallup," said Nick with a wry smile on his lips and laughter in his eyes.
"I bet he's out behind the house now looking to see if Nick took his jeep." Bill grinned from behind the wheel.
"Two weeks ago, when Tom got bonked on the head and was a few bricks short of a full load, the only thing on his mind was his precious jeep. All the way home he would plead with me, 'Please, don't let Nick drive the jeep.' Then he'd forget and ask again...every ten minutes for two hours," I said
"I hate that jeep, I had to drive that pile of crap, and not one of you would even ride with me," said Nick. "Then I was the one who got to explain to his parents how it was that Tom got hurt."
We were all laughing....somehow relieved. Two weeks ago had become two centuries ago. We were on our way to the Navajo rodeo in Gallup.
After about forty miles and our first stop for doughnuts, we started talking up the rodeo. Bill said, "My uncle was there last year, and all he could talk about was knee-walkin drunk Navajos and how small the bulls were at the rodeo. He said they were Brahmas...but yearlings."
"Abernathy is missing, and he is going to be pissed if we ride these bulls. He'll have to ride a bull in the Las Cruses rodeo to catch up...Probably draw a ride on the likes of ‘Mexican Joe’," Nick said.
As the laughter died down, the car droned on in silence and I fell into a reverie reflecting on our last trip two weeks ago. It had started when I went to Charlie’s house.
Charlie's dad gave me the news, “That knot head couldn’t wait. He went to the Piggly Wiggly.”
I had to go find him. That was where our trips always started … at the grocery store . Going on a trip? First you need food, then a destination, then maybe a purpose. I spotted him right away. He was facing a display of the cigars. The cart contained one bag of Beechnut Chewing Tobacco, resting on top of circus peanuts, butterfingers, gumdrops, m&m's, an economy size bag of potato chips, one pack of weenies and a pack of buns. Charlie held up a package of cigars. "Cheroots, partner … big as your trigger finger," He swaggered on, "I'm just about done. I just got stuff I knew we'd like, it’s all junk. It’s the perfect menu for a two day road trip."
I picked out a bag of Cheetos. I wanted to claim my rights to independent decision making. "Where do you want to go?"
"There's a Jim Shoulder's rodeo in Las Vegas tomorrow night, then a dance. The Hank Thompson Band is playing. You'll like it... bull riding and guitar music," Charlie said.
As the next 15 hours passed our group had grown to five: Duff Walker, Charlie Abernathy and Bill Stone in the Abernathy’s station wagon, and Tom Keller with Nick Lettra in Tom's army surplus jeep. We had driven to Las Vegas New Mexico. We were in the parking lot at the rodeo. Charlie and I were arguing.
"Walker, if you haven't got the cajones for it, walk on up there, buy yourself a ticket, and sit in the stands. If you don't get off your ass and try something you're never going to get where the action is." He grabbed my hat from the seat and handed it to me, "This will be the ugliest hat in that arena tonight, put it on and let’s go in there."
He was out of the car and walking fast. The others were behind us. I wanted to catch up to deliver my rebuttal or maybe the first punch, but I didn't want to attract attention by running. By the time I was close enough to talk we were within earshot of the guard at the gate, who was already looking down and not seeing the expected identification saying, "Got your passes boys?"
Charlie made eye contact with him just below the brim of his cowboy hat, Charlie’s eyes were stone hard. In the most surprisingly gruff voice, he said, "Number's on my jacket over chute three."
"What event?"
"Steer wrestling. I'm hazing for Duff Walker."
I was already uneasy about a confrontation. I had considered becoming a paid up spectator. I just couldn't believe it. Charlie gave the guy my name. I was flabbergasted. For that second I was really angry, which probably got us in because it gave me a look of some determination as I looked up at the guard and growled, "I'm Duff Walker." I set my jaw and kept walking in near darkness.
We were in. The lights made the arena bright as day. "Your applause is this cowboy's only reward. Let's hear it for Red Jackson, ridin out of Muleshoe Texas, folks." came blaring over the speakers.
A bull was at the other end of the arena coming our way running along the fence looking for an exit. The cowboys sitting in the sand were getting up, beginning to climb the fence. Charlie climbed. I grabbed the fence, had one foot up and looked right into his face when he turned around. He had a golf ball sized protrusion in one cheek. He handed me the open pack of Beechnut Chewing Tobacco. As I reached the top of the fence the bull went by. It rumbled like a passing train. I took a bunch of the sticky leaves, enough to give me a respectable cheek lump, put the wad in my mouth, and returned the package. What a surprise. Chewing tobacco was sweet. Immediately, I had one and a half mouthfuls of saliva. I tried not to swallow. I had to spit. I unloaded with the inaccuracy of inexperience. The puddle grew to silver dollar size as the juice hit, and almost as quickly disappeared into the sand leaving a damp spot an inch from the thumb of the contestant next to me. He didn’t flinch, but glanced up. I don’t know what he saw, but he looked back at the damp spot by his thumb and moved a few yards to a new spot.
The cowboys near the chutes would help out, push on the gate so that they could release the latch but keep the bull contained until the rider nodded. No reason those cowboys shouldn't be us. We moved down the fence where they loaded the bulls. Charlie, Nick and I took positions at the gate. They poked the bull with a section of broom stick to keep him moving in the passage toward the chute. When he reached the chute, a cowboy on the fence slammed down the slide to close off the front. The bull wasn't quite in and started to back up.
"Give me the Hot Shot," said the guy with the stick. It looked like a flash light about six batteries long with two prongs at the business end.
"Zap."
The bull jumped forward and the slide slammed down behind him. He began kicking, struggling and bawling. Then he stopped for a while, stood there with big wild eyes, breathing hard, blowing froth on our boots at the gate. With the bull confined, they began getting the rope around it. The bull rope was a flat, braided, inch and a half wide hemp rope with a loop at one end and a round braid at the other. A cowbell was tied to the middle of the rope to hang down from the bull's belly stimulating the bull to buck and serving as a weight to remove the rope from the bull when the passenger let it go. Each rider had one trusted assistant, and only the two of them touched the rope, threading it around the bull just behind the forelegs. When it encircled the bull, the rider put rosin on the leather glove and rubbed it up and down the free end of the rope. Then he put his hand under the loop, palm up, over the withers and his assistant stood atop the chute one foot on each side and grabbed the rope with both hands and pulled it tight, strapping the riders hand to the bull. When the bull exhaled, the assistant gave it his all, further tightening the rope around the bull and rider's hand. The rider then placed the free end over his palm; and using the other hand, folded each finger of the riding hand tightly over the rope to form a fist gripping it, preventing it from loosening its hold on his hand and bull. Then he pounded on that closed fist with his free hand, presumably to further tighten the grip and prevent the rope from loosening. Then the rider eased his butt down on to the bull's withers and locked one thigh down firmly under the forearm of his roped hand. The free hand and both feet were still on the slats so the rider could get up if the bull started bucking in the chute. When the bull was quiet for long enough he eased his feet down with spurs in place just over the bulls neck on each side. Four of five of us pushed on the gate. The starting judge slid the latch. We alone held the thousand pound bull in the chute.
The rider nodded and said, "Let's see him."
The starter pulled the gate open while we ran for the fence. Spurs in, a goose with the "hot shot", and the bull went crazy. The bull kicked and spun, left then right; and the rider was off. We took notes.
Tom sat next to me at the fence. He had this far away philosophical expression, and said, "If your balls hung down to your knees, would you kick like that?"
"I think that's why they spin," I said.
We were in the swing of things: helping, chewing, climbing the fence, and sitting in the sand with the cowboys. Jim Shoulders himself made the final ride on Mexican Joe.
"This bull hasn't been ridden this year," we heard the announcer say.
Jim didn't make the ride, and the bull almost got him besides. The clowns did some real gutsy stuff inches from the bull. They got their cowboy out of harms way.
The bull had a go at breaking open the barrel while the loudspeaker bantered with the other clown. We sat in the sand along the fence and watched the show for about five minutes. The bull got bored, trotted toward the stands, and began the standard run along the fence. The cowboys around us were casually climbing the fence well in advance of this bull. As I was starting up, I was suddenly very dizzy, then nauseated, but most distressing, unable to get up. I could feel the ground shaking, rumbling like an oncoming train, and the bull was there. It was over in a tenth of a second. The bull ran right by, over the top of me, paying no mind and unbelievably didn't even touch me. Again I was embarrassed. I tried to look like one of the first ones back off of the fence to his seat in the sand.
I thought, "Oh, No! Don’t be sick." I saw my chew in the sand, and happy not to have I swallowed it. Now, if that announcer can just keep his trap shut."
Silence.
I don't think anyone around me even knew. By half way through the saddle bronc event, I had recovered from my virgin chew. The fireworks ended it. We were off to the dance, where we stood at the periphery of the dance floor, hands half in our front pockets, thumbs hooked over each pocket's edge...for about two hours…shuffling around staring at our boots.
We left the dance near midnight, and began a search for a place "under the stars" to throw our bedrolls down. We turned off the highway into the pitch black dark on side road, crossed a cattle guard, and drove a respectable distance from the highway. There were no lights to suggest civilization, the spot was perfect. We rolled out the bags, and slept. At three AM it rained. Nick made it under the station wagon, and Bill got inside.
At six A.M. they found the rest of us wet and cold just waiting for the light. Two men looked down at us. The foreman had a gruff and commanding question, "Who's awake here?"
Charlie was instantly on one foot hopping around putting his levis on, talking the whole time, "We're on our way to the Gallinas. Bill here has family there."
I thought, "True. It's a vacation home. Not a bad reply though.” Bill's family owned a large wholesale grocery business there, and I was just relieved Charlie didn't blurt that out to make an impression.
"It’s posted here. There's a big sign where you turned off the highway. You are on private property."
"We got away late, got turned around. We just put out some sleeping bags. We expected to be gone at daylight," Charlie was saying. On a roll, he talked fast.
"Guainas is a ways from here," said the foreman, still suspicious.
"We stopped to take in the rodeo last night." Charley had his pants on and his cowboy hat. He walked to the foreman with his hand out to shake. "Charlie Abernathy – out of Albuquerque."
Foreman loosened up, even smiled slightly, and shook, "Jim Sanderson."
Charlie put in, "Didn't mean no harm. We could come up with a few bucks for the use of your land here." When I heard that, I knew the real lying had started.
The foreman smiled. "We don't want your money, but you got to move out. We got three truckloads of calves to unload here in an hour."
"We could move the cars, and give you a hand with them calves," Charlie tried to sound like one of the crew.
Somehow I expected him to laugh. I almost did. But Foreman Jim took it in with contemplation. "You lookin for work, are ya?”
"Oh great," I thought, "he's going to tell them we are cowboys looking for a job branding calves. The business end of the iron can burn you good. That’s what we knew about branding."
"No. Just felt bad about trespassing. Willin to help. We got to be back at work in Albuquerque on Monday," Charlie replied.
"That's better," I was thinking.
"What are you boys doin down in Albuquerque?" Jim said, warming up a little.
"We're carrying blasting powder for the road to the ski run in the Sandias," Charlie replied. This true fact did sort of firm up the story....so far so good. Charlie pointed to me and continued, " Before that; Walker, here...and I. We've been ridin down south on the Hubble Ranch." He had done it again, just like at the rodeo gate, gave my name…as if it were some kind of authentication. He had just told Jim that we were also cowboys who had been recently riding the range…for the largest sheep ranch in New Mexico." All he really knew was that Butch Hubble was in our geometry class. A “Sheep-puncher”…yeah, that was me. Foreman Jim will never figure that one out.
Foreman Jim didn't flinch or laugh. He just nodded.
"Tom and Nick came to visit. They’re lookin to do some horseback ridin," said Charlie shaking his head, "Bill has a couple of horses at his place but one is lame."
"Oh, boy. I think I see where this may be going," I thought.
Foreman Jim just nodded again.
"Does your ranch have a few horses that we could exercise? We'd be much obliged, willin to give a hand with the calves."
Jim just nodded again, "Don't worry about the calves, we're just going to run em off the truck. Takes five minutes." He continued, " We got a string of ponies haven't been ridden since fall. They could use a stretch, and they like to run.”
“We’d be much obliged.”
“Bring your car down to the house around the bend at the bottom of that hill when you get organized. We'll see about the horses."
They headed for their pick up.
"Thanks," Charlie said.
He turned around his face alight with his victory. I couldn't believe it. We were going to ride. He basked in deserved congratulations from us fellow “sheep-punchers”. He had just turned a trespassing violation into a free horseback ride with a pack of lies.
The house faced south on a small stream. The road and the river each curved, and they crossed at the middle of the valley about a quarter mile from the house. It was a beautiful setting. The corral bordered the road across from the porch of the house. A dozen horses stood together near the water trough. Foreman Jim introduced us to the owners. We talked weather, what was going on in Albuquerque and in Las Vegas, where Bill's family had a place was on the Gainas River. While we were thanking them for their hospitality, Foreman Jim had been in the tack shed, and had a handful of three bridles. He gave one to Charlie, me, and Nick. "Let’s go have a look," he said. At the corral, we all took one step up on the fence so we could see the horses.
Jim said, "You can ride three at a time. Charlie put a bridle on Maggie the black one in the middle of the corral." He pointed to me, "You get Chili, the bay by the far gate."
I was relieved that he pointed because I wasn't absolutely sure what color bay really was.
He nodded to Nick, "You ride Ricky. The pinto at the trough."
He opened the gate. Charlie was able to walk right up to Maggie but was having trouble with the bit. Nick had no trouble at all. Ricky was interested in the food. I had big trouble. Chili kept the herd between us, I'd cut her off and she'd run right past me into the middle of the herd, and I soon had the corral in turmoil, every animal running. I had a huge dust cloud and no horse.
"Now what?" I thought.
A loop sailed over my head and around Chili's. Jim reeled her in and snubbed her to a post. He said not one word. I did get the bridle on her myself.
Jim was looking us over. "The saddle will need some adjustment. Stirrups are laced so it will take some time."
"Right!" I thought.
It was one of the few things I knew how to do. Then I heard something that took my breath away.
Jim said, “We only have two saddles.”
It was Charlie. He said, "I'd just as soon ride bareback."
I had a sinking feeling. I had the horse with the attitude.
"You sure?" said Jim. His eyebrows went up, his wide eyes full of the question.
Charlie nodded, "Yep."
Jim looked at me, the question on his face, and I replied, "I'll try it bareback too." Nick followed suit.
So we all end up bareback.
One at a time we jumped up lying belly down on the backs of our mounts, the only grip being a handful of mane at the horse’s withers. The horses were nervous and jumping around. It was very close but we all got a leg over and up to sitting position without falling. Thankful more than confident we left the corral at a walk.
Jim stood in front of Maggie looking at Charlie, and said, "Be careful what you tell her with your feet. She's a cuttin horse and turns on a dime." He stepped back to me and said, "Chili has the name for a reason. She doesn't like anything flying out to the side, like a flapping slicker or such... she’ll try to get you off. If she does, she’s pretty good at givin you a good kick on the way down." Then, in general, he said, "Have a good ride."
We let them walk down the road toward the bridge. After about 50 yards, Charlie clucked and leaned slightly forward and Maggie went immediately into a brisk trot. Quickly it became apparent that Chili was not accustomed to being passed and that Ricky would follow Chili but not Maggie. The horses took four strides at a lope, then galloped in an all out horse race. In his effort to stay aboard Charlie had given Maggie a turn signal with one foot. She went 90 degrees to the right up the hill. Charlie immediately went 90 degrees to horizontal position clinging like a pipe wrench. He had to give up and take a dive when Maggie went in the woods. Ricky continued the race with Chili. Chili followed the road left around the curve and over the bridge. I didn't see it, but Ricky galloped to the riverbank, planted all four feet, and set the brakes. Nick scored a 7.5 for his involuntary swan dive into soft black riverbed soil ten feet below. When I finally got Chili stopped and looked back, Charlie had mounted again and Nick appeared, climbing the river bank, totally black with white rings around his eyes. He looked like a coal miner at Miller time, but he had no injuries. Nick and Charlie remounted, and we started again. Charlie and Maggie pulled up next to Chili and me, Charlie held his reins left handed, his enthusiasm was unaffected by the fall. With his right he took the long free ends of the reins and gave Maggie a left, right, left snap on each of her haunches. It wasn't a slicker that he waved, but it was close enough for Chili. She took two hops and accelerated to a gallop in about 4 more strides, hind feet coming out in front between the forefeet. I bounced 4 times to find the base of the horses tail visible at my crotch, and I could hear Jim's fateful words, "She’ll give you a kick on the way down." I took one rein in each hand and on the next stride pulled as hard as I could, all the way up over my head, and my next bounce was on the withers and I jumped to the right off to the front. She still was able to kick me in my left ankle. I limped around a little but remounted. Then things actually settled down a little, and except for attempts to sideswipe my legs on a few trees, Chili and I had a decent ride. As we turned around for home, I was plotting my strategy for the final sprint anticipating audience on the porch. I was determined to walk Chili back up the road from the bridge. It was not to be.
"Don't be such an old woman, Walker. They're going to run. Just let ‘em run," argued Charlie.
"I'm not going to be galloped into that corral," I was saying, pig headed stubborn.
We crossed the bridge and I had choked up on one rein and had the Chili’s head pulled up sideways so she could look down with her left eye only. She trailed the pack but still able to gallop. I achieved a small victory because she stopped mannerly and didn't try to take me through the corral gate at a gallop. Tom and Bill came out for their turn. Charlie wanted to go again, but Nick and I had had plenty. As they left there the horses didn’t race. After they crossed the bridge they ran some, but all riders did fine as they left our view.
About a half hour later, Bill was coming back on Chili leading Ricky. Jim Sanford came out on the porch when Bill pulled up, "Tom fell off in the trees. He hit his head, and he is out cold."
Foreman Jim was matter of fact; said, "Put the horses in the corral." He nodded at Bill and said, "You show me where they are." They headed for Jim's pick up.

As I watched the truck bump along the road, I began thinking about how to say it. "Mr. Keller, this is Duff Walker. Tom fell off a horse an hour ago and is still unconscious."...maybe..."Mr. Keller, Tom got hurt pretty bad. He'll be arriving in Albuquerque by helicopter..."
Finally, the truck returned, driving very slowly. As it crossed the bridge and approached the house, I could see Tom, 6'3", standing in the back of the truck looking over the cab. He looked bright and alert. Maybe it would turn out all right. I waved and Tom waved back. They took him in and put him in bed. We waited on the porch while they gave Tom some TLC and a physical exam by the attending mother, the owner’s wife. The mother called her local doctor and Tom's mom.
The cowboys became just boys, boys in trouble. I thought that our hosts might be upset with us for pretending we were experienced riders. But they saw it more simply. They seemed to accept as a matter of fact that it's in a boy's nature to try just about any horseback ride, and they accepted the risk of occasional falls.
In about 30 minutes, Tom had mother's and doctor's okay to travel with us by car. Still a little woozy, he could remember that Reverend Bob Richards had set the world pole vault record not realizing it had been four years earlier. He couldn’t remember recent events. Every few minutes he would turn to the nearest person and beg, "Please don't let Nick drive my jeep." He seemed otherwise normal. We said our good byes. The owners asked us to come by and see them again, next year after the rodeo. They gave us a direct, heartfelt invitation.
It was quiet in the car on the way home. We were thinking about Tom. We had all been lucky, even Tom. We could have bought tickets, watched a rodeo, and come home. But why watch if you can ride. Trespass, tell some lies when you're caught, get a horseback ride. Sounds like an acceptable explanation for us to give Toms parents, doesn’t it?
My day dreaming passed. I was back in the car with my friends, headed for Gallup. We were hungry again. It had been an hour. We stopped to eat in Grants. Our hopes of riding juvenile bulls with no rodeo savvy were dashed. A poster in the restaurant window advertising the Gallup Rodeo indicated the stock would be provided by the Jim Shoulders Rodeo Stock Company. That meant the likes of Blue Bell and Mexican Joe, no yearlings.
“Well, the admission is less than an entry fee,” I said. We all shook our heads. What rotten luck.