Post 14: My Cowboy Days

     I did a lot of cow-wrangling. Once, an old wild cow got me cornered in the barn and just kept on working me over with her head for what seemed like forever. Fortunately, most of our cows did not have horns. Another time, I remember walking behind a steer in a stall. It kicked at me, grazed my leg, then the full force of it broke a wall plank in three places. When a government man came to vaccinate our calves, we had them penned up for him in the barn. He told me, “Son, let’s see what kind of cowboy you are. Bring that calf to me.” I grabbed that calf, and we were a pretty even match. We wallowed all over that barn. Finally, exhausted, I pulled the calf over to him. He grinned, “Well, that’s pretty good. But that method would get pretty old after awhile, before you finished this job.” He slipped his hand over a calf's lip, dug his fingernails into the underside, and the calf got real cooperative. I learned that day that pain was a good working tool.
     I often herded the cattle into the corral to spray, load them up for the sale, or whatever. I learned after awhile that cows, like people, had their own individual characteristics. I eventually was able to identify any of our fifty or so cows. I felt I had missed out, being a cowboy without a horse. But Dad had decided about the time I was born that he wanted his cows to be gentle and easier to handle, so he got rid of his horses. Also, around that time, he stopped running our cattle up in the mountains.
    While he was doing that, sometimes he would have to ride his horse for many miles to find them. He usually carried a shotgun pistol, just in case. Once, he rode up on a whisky still, with the fire burning good, but nobody was in sight. He figured the owner was hiding, with a bead on him. He pulled his pistol, backing out slowly, then clearing out quick. The Bell cow wore a bell around her neck, making the herd easier to find. Once he only ran them on our land, 250 acres or so, the horses weren't a requirement. Just my luck, that’s about the time I was born. At feeding time in the winter, he could shake range cubes in a bucket and the cows would all come running. The regular cows knew to go to their troughs in the lot, the cows with calves went into the barn hallway with a little better feed, and the bull went into another pen for the most feed. Then, Dad would shut the gates and go to the house. When the bull got through, he would push open two gates, and leave. The other cows could then go out. I once tried to separate two fighting bulls by shooting both barrels of a shotgun over their heads at once. It did not bother them but sure made an impression on me. By the time Dad got home, one bull had a broken leg.
     Sometimes I went with Dad to the Fort Smith stockyards. I once saw a man lean up against a pen, undo his belt to tuck his shirt in his pants, and a cow pooped in his pants!