Tales of a Texas Boy Page 6

  One of the drovers pulled off and stood waitin’ for me when I trotted up on Sam.

  “Howdy,” he saaid and I howdied him back. He pulled his hat off and squinted up the road to our place. “Your place?” he asked. I answered him, “Yessir,” like I was taught and waited for him to make the next move.

  “Think your Pa could spare some water?”

  “Yessir. He just tol’ me to come tell you just that thing. Ma’s heatin’ up the stove too, if you’d like some supper.”

  “That’s mighty nice, son. What do they call you?”

  “Edward,” I said so I’d sound older than someone called Eddie.

  “Well, Edward, let’s move these bulls on up the road.”

  So, I just pulled Sam up to the side of the herd and whooped a couple of times to keep ‘em movin’. This was the best, I thought. I’d only got to read about the cowboys and now I got to be one, at least for a few minutes.

  So, on we went, keepin’ those bulls in line. If the truth be known, they didn’t need any encouragin’. They smelled the water and didn’t need invitin’ to keep movin’.

  West Texas in the summer is just about as hot and dry a place as the world’s got to offer. I’d seen a picture show about the Sahara Desert and I think it might be just a little hotter and a little drier, but not much. I didn’t know exactly where these drovers come from, but I knew my neighborhood and the nearest supply of good water is in the exact opposite direction. I figured those bulls were mighty thirsty no matter which way they come.

  Pa opened the corral gate and shooed out the horses by the time we pulled in. The bulls headed right on into the corral with no fuss. I could see over to the other side Sister was pumpin’ for all she was worth to fill the trough as the bulls crowded up for a drink.

  We closed up the gate and I jumped off Sam and let him go find his friends. I could see the other horses were already makin’ a beeline for the barn. They liked the shade and the hay that’s always in the stalls. Pa doesn’t let the horses stay in the barn all day, though, so they were just as happy to get in out of the sun.

  Pa and the man were talkin’ by now so I went back over to listen. They just sort of chatted, like grownups do, about weather and crops and such. I started gettin’ antsy listenin’ to all this. Why not cut right to it and ask? Why were they pushin’ a herd of bulls and where were they takin’ ‘em?

  Finally, the man says “Me and Mike over there are takin’ these bulls to Clovis. From there, they’re goin’ to the Spade Ranch. They’re needin’ some new blood in their herds. I believe they’re tryin’ to cross ‘em with the long horns. No matter to me, I’m just takin’ ‘em over.

  Pa considered this for a while. Seems like every time one of ‘em says somethin’, the other one’s gotta think it over for five minutes ‘fore they answer. This made me a little crazy and I started to rock back and forth from one foot to another. Pa shifted a look my way, which I know exactly what it means. I tryed hard to stand still.

  “That’s most forty, fifty miles from here,” Pa said.

  “Yeah, it’s quite aways to herd bulls,” the man agreed, “but I’ve already pushed ‘em fifty miles with just the two of us.”

  “Why didn’t you truck ‘em?” Pa asked reasonably.

  “I thought about it, but it’d cost more’n I’ve got to spend. If they walk, I can take them cross-country. It saves me quite a bit.” He stood thinkin’ awhile, then said, “I decided it was the best route to take them over to Clovis and put them on the train to Anton. Two train rides cuts my profit too much.”

  “Well, I can appreciate it,” Pa replied. I was just a kid, but even I knew 1931 ain’t a very good year for West Texas ranchers and farmers. Pa said the whole country’s goin’ bad.

  Pa went on to invite the man and his hand to supper and the offer was accepted with thanks.

  The man’s name was Jed Browning. The bulls don’t all belong to him. He’d made the deal with the broker and he’d collected all the bulls folks had to spare from around his place up west of Amarillo. He lived about forty miles from us, so we didn’t know him, of course.

  Seems like these bulls were all Herefords and come from a really important bull some man imported all the way from a town called Hereford in England. I guess that’s how they named the town where they come from. Probably it was how they named our closest town, too. Herefords from Hereford goin’ through Hereford, Texas. I thought it was passably funny right there.

  Now all of that weren’t important to me. When Pa and Mr. Browning headed into the house, I climbed up on the corral fence and just looked at those bulls. I can tell you straight up, I want to be a rancher, not a farmer, so those bulls looked awfully good to me.

  They were road-dirty and their heads hung down in the heat, but to me they were just about as beautiful as can be. Here, I lived in Texas and we didn’t even own any cattle 'cepting an old milk cow. I didn’t think it was fair. I wanted to rope and brand cattle and ride the range and, instead, I got to do chores on a pig farm. Well, almost a pig farm. That’s the most livestock we had, other than the mules and horses. Pa planted row crops and wheat on six hundred forty acres, but it wasn’t doin’ too good. Seemed like it was hotter and drier this year.

  Ended up Mr. Browning and Mike stayed the night with the bulls milling around in our pen. That evenin’, Pa and Mr. Browning discussed the drive 'cross to Clovis and I’m listenin’ really close. Finally, Mr. Browning eyed me sittin’ there and stopped to think a minute. He turned to Pa and said, “I sure could use some help with this herd. Would you consider lettin’ Edward here come along to help?”

  My ears perked up like I was a hound dog gettin’ scent on a raccoon. Pa considered a bit and then to my surprise he said yes. I was going on a real cattle drive!

  I was so excited I could hardly sleep that night and I was up and ready to go at dawn. I even had Sam saddled up. Pa mentioned he thought Sam was the steadiest and knew cattle, so I should take him and not my own horse, Brownie. I was a tad disappointed since Sam was, well, what can I say, Sam was somethin’ of an ol’ plug. But, I wasn’t complainin’. No sirree.

  I waved to Ma standin’ on the porch. She hollered, “you mind Mr. Browning or I’ll tan you good.” This was just her way of sayin’ goodbye. Pa shook my hand and slapped Sam on the hindquarters to get him moving. That made me feel like I was all grown up.

  We brought the bulls out of the pen, got them headed in the right direction then set off for the long ride to Clovis.

  We were off. Goin’ on a real drive and I’d be gone overnight for the first time in my life. Matter of fact, I’d be away from home for near eight days with five days herdin’ the bulls to Clovis then two and a half me comin’ back. Mr. Browning told Pa once we got the bulls to Clovis, I’d be paid one dollar and fifty cents and I’d come back home on my own. Me, I woulda done it for free.

  I felt like I was a real cowboy. I took out my lariat and swung it next to the bull’s head when one tried to wander out of line. I yipped and hollered and generally acted like I thought a cowboy ought to be.

  We hadn’t gone but a few miles when Mr. Browning trotted on over to my position and rode next to me.

  He said, “You know these parts, son?”

  I replied, “I know ‘em as well as anyone round here, I s’pect.”

  “Well,” he said, “maybe you can direct us to some watering hole hereabouts?”

  So, that’s why Mr. Browning wanted me to come along. It wasn’t for me bein’ good at herdin’ cattle since I hadn’t herded any cattle before, except our old milk cow. I felt a mite prideful ‘cause even if I was only eleven, almost, I did know these parts real well. Me and Sister, had been all over the place within twenty miles of our farm. Heck, we rode to school every day and it was more’n six miles from home.

  I allowed to him if we veered off a bit to the southwest, there was a playa that held water until late in the spring. Since it was early June, I suspected it would still have some.

  I poi
nted a bit southwest from where we were headin’. Mr. Browning nodded to me then booted his horse on over to his hired hand, Mike, pointin’ off the way we’d be goin’. We started to turn the bulls a little at a time until we were headin’ in the right direction.

  I hadn’t mentioned much about the hired hand, but maybe I should speak on him now. Mr. Browning introduced the man as just Mike and didn’t add much else. I don’t think Mike said two words at our ranch, and I didn’t speak to him myself. Mostly, I didn’t feel good about calling a growed man by just his first name. Pa would box my ears if I did that. So, I wondered about him and started callin’ him Mr. Mike in my head since otherwise didn’t feel right.

  He was quiet, like I said, and wore a beard, but not like it was meant to be a full beard, but just like he hadn’t had a chance to shave for a week. Mr. Browning was clean shaved, so I knew it wasn’t 'cause he didn’t have the chance. Also, his clothes weren’t really right for what we was doin’. His boots weren’t cowboy style, but lace ups like soldiers wore. He had on a jacket over a plain shirt, but neither one was what I’d think of a cowboy wearin’.

  I suspected he weren’t really a cowboy at all, but he seemed to ride good enough to be a help. He did cut off the bulls when they wanted to head somewhere else and generally kept them movin’ where they ought to go. It was gettin’ so men were losin’ their regular jobs and turned to doin’ anything handy to put bread on the table.

  When we reached the playa, I told Mr. Browning about, we stopped to let the bulls and horses drink. The water was a little low and the banks muddy, but it did have enough for the animals. Mr. Browning allowed it was a good time to break for a meal and a rest. The animals needed to graze awhile and, it still bein’ spring, there was a good layer of buffalo grass on the prairie.

  We went on like this for four more days. Start up the herd in the mornin’, find water, stop around noon for some food, and tuck in for the night at sundown. I’ll have to admit even I was getting a little saddle-sore by the time we reached Clovis.

  We took those bulls right down the main street. People stopped and stared as we moved ‘em along. The bulls were pretty tuckered out by then, so they didn’t even care. I sat up straighter in the saddle and swung my rope a few times just for show. Those bulls weren’t headin’ anywhere but straight down the street.

  At the end of the street was the train yard. Since Clovis was still pretty much in cattle country, the yard was mostly made up of lots of small corrals where cattle milled and lowed. It was right noisy down here. We was met by the yard crew. I don’t think they knew we was comin’ but they jumped right in and turned the bulls into one of the holdin’ pens. My job was done.

  Mr. Browning spent some time shoutin’ orders to the yard crew and when everything was settled, he came over where I was standin’ by Sam. I’d got off and loosed up the cinch so he could relax for a bit.

  “Thanks, Edward, you did a real good job,” he said smilin’ at me. Then, he reached into his wallet and hauled out two dollars bills.

  “I ain’t got change, Mr. Browning,” I said real polite like Ma taught me.

  “That’s okay, Edward. I reckon you earned a little extra.” I grinned real big cause two dollars was a lot of money for me. I shook his hand and waved goodbye to Mike, though he still didn’t say a word.

  I tightened up Sam’s cinch and swung on up. First thing, I’d need to find a store so I could get somethin’ to eat for the way back home. It was easy enough since Clovis was pretty much only the train yard and the main street. I got some bread and a couple cans of beans for the trip. It cost me twenty-five cents, so I still had plenty left for some candy. Since it was only about noon, I decided to start back right away. No sense in wastin’ daylight, I figured.

  It didn’t take long to get out of New Mexico and back into Texas. I’ll have to say I felt easier once I was back. I don’t know about those New Mexico folks, but I knew I’d be fine in Texas ‘cause Texas was my home.

  I kept an eye peeled for the green grass showing where water was still on the ground and found a nice place to camp for the night. The playa lay out by an old windmill that creaked when the wind turned the arms. No sign of a house or corrals or anything looking like people ever lived near by, so I just settled in by the windmill for the night. Bread and beans filled my belly well enough. I hobbled Sam so he could graze, but not get too far away.

  I sat there by the windmill with a little fire to heat up my beans and looked up at the sky thinkin’ about how lucky I was to be a cowboy.

  One Fine Dog

  Dogs weren’t just pets, but working members of the family. Sometimes, they could do amazing things and perform feats that were almost like magic.

  Ma yelled loud enough for me to hear into the next state. “Edward Preston! Get yerself in here right now!”

  I wondered what it was I done now. I didn’t recall any particular mischief I’d been up to. At least, not today. I finished throwin’ the hay into Beau’s corral and went on the run up to the house.

  “Yes’m,” I said soon as I got to the porch where Ma was standin’ with her fists planted on her hips. I reckon you know the look she was givin’ me. If’n your mother called you by your first and middle names, then you know exactly what I’m talkin’ about.

  Then, she surprised me ‘cause she smiled. Now, that sure weren’t the normal expression she’d have if she was about to give me what-for. I thought maybe she was just havin’ some fun with me.

  “Your Pa is goin’ to pick up the ewes from the Braddock’s place, so go help him get the truck out of the barn.”

  I grinned myself and almost shouted “Yes’m!” But, I caught myself in time as Ma doesn’t like us to be yellin’. I took off to the barn to find Pa. He was already pullin’ the tarp off the truck, so I went about helpin’ him finish up. We got behind the truck and pushed ‘er out of the barn. I jumped in behind the wheel. Like Pa taught me, I checked to make sure the hand brake was on, then I checked the spark and gas levers on the steering column. I pulled up on the spark and pushed down on the gas. Pa gave a mighty pull up on the crank. When the engine roared, I pushed the gas lever up a little more.

  “You gotta give it more gas a little faster, Eddie.” Pa was tryin’ to teach me how to operate the truck as I was goin’ on eleven, which is plenty old enough to drive. He was takin’ it slower than I’d like. I thought I had the basics down already. Brake. Spark. Throttle. Crank. Throttle. Take off the brake and go!

  “Yessir, Pa.”

  Then, I got my second surprise of the day when Pa went to the passenger side and got in. Now my grin was gettin’ even wider, but I tried to tuck it down and act growed up. Pa was goin’ let me drive!

  I steered out to the road half expectin’ Pa to only let me take the truck that far, but he waved me ahead and we turned left toward the Braddock’s.

  I should explain what we were doin’. We have some ewes, but we don’t have a ram. So, in the fall, we bring the ewes to the Braddocks, who do have a ram. We’d just let them winter over with the Braddock flock. Now, it was spring and the hijadores, who came round to help with the lambing, had finished their work. It was time to put the ewes back into our own pastures.

  It was only a couple of miles down the road, so I drove slow enough to please Pa and to make my first time at the wheel last a mite longer. At the gate into the sheep field, Pa jumped out and pulled the gate open. I drove on through and up to the sheep pens out by the old windmill. Pa closed up the gate, so the sheep wouldn’t make a break fer it.

  Mr. Braddock musta known we were comin’ as he was waitin for us. I drove the truck up, but knew I wasn’t good enough to back it up to the loading chute. The sheep weren’t in the pen, so I knew we’d have to go round ‘em up. Mr. Braddock owned a sheepdog name of Pete, so it wouldn’t be too hard.

  Pa and Mr. Braddock commenced talkin’, which grown men always spend a long time doin’ every time they meet up. One day, I’d have to listen in and see what they found to talk about. A
fter all, I was gettin’ to the age I might be expected to carry on these conversations. But, for now, it wasn’t my job.

  I looked across the big field at the sheep clear to the other side. It was a pretty picture with the new grass so green and the sheep lookin’ like a cloud against the blue sky. Mr. Braddock’s flock ran about a hundred sheep. Pa tol’ me back in the last century there were millions of sheep in West Texas. Mexicans, called pastores, followed these sheep in a grazin’ route along the Canadian River. But, when the cattle ranchers started buildin’ up the big herds, they didn’t want the sheep eatin’ up all the grass. Back in the 1880s, the Sheep Wars eventually chased off the pastores, and cattlemen took over just about all the good land after that.

  Now, there weren’t too many sheep around. A few lone sheepherders still moved flocks, but none of them very big. We kept just a few sheep for mutton and wool. Ma still carded wool even though you could buy yarn in the stores. I think she liked it better when she did it herself.

  It was about a quarter mile across the pasture, so we’d have to walk on over to get them movin’. Pete, Mr. Braddock’s dog, would do most of the work, but even a real good sheepdog couldn’t move the whole flock all by hisself. And, we’d need to cut our own outta the flock.

  First, we’d have to figure out which were our ewes. We’d docked their ears with our mark, but you had to get close enough to read it. Since the ewes were skittish right after lambing, jest like moms everywhere, they worried about their young’uns. We were countin’ on motherly love to help us match the lambs belonging to our ewes.

  Finally, Pa and Mr. Braddock were done talkin’, so we commenced to walk across the pasture. Pete knew what was up so he took off runnin’ toward the flock. The ground was still spongy with the spring rains, so it was hard goin’ for us. We squished along as best we could. I began to get the idea this wasn’t goin’ to be so easy after all.

  Pete was near the flock by now and he started barkin’ up a storm.