A Day In The Life Of A Cowboy
Posted: Friday, February 29, 2008
by Ted Gragg
Myrtle Beach Shooting Range
The sky was graying in the East. Across the flat of the prairie one could see the land meeting the sky. Large clumps of sagebrush clung to the drift fence on the horizon, their silhouettes looking like huge periods dotting the morning sky. The musty odor of warm horse hung in the air. Horse teeth rattled against the steel of bits as bridles were put in place. Men and horses jostled against one another as the mounts were led into the corral. The cowponies stood still, swishing their tails, anchored to the spot by the reins casually dropped on the ground by the men. A few horses nervously stamped their hooves as the men slung saddles onto the animals’ backs. Each horseman raised his leg and kneed his horse firmly in the belly, forcing the animal to expel air, allowing the final tightening of the belly band and knotting of the saddle cinch. Somewhere in the dim light, a horse urinated, the splashing sound carrying over the saddling noise.
Each rider wore chaps to protect his legs from brush. Shotgun style chaps, narrow in the leg, seemed to be favored. Here and there, though, a pair of wide batwing chaps could be seen. High roping horns adorned the saddle pommels while linen or oilcloth dusters were folded and pigged into place behind the cantles. Subdued morning banter played between some of the riders…teasing about last night’s date or the ball scores from the regions schools, just careless everyman talk on the way to work.
And they rode…past the old windmill, through the south ranch gate, clattering across the macadam highway and back onto the prairie. Wide brimmed hats tugged down to ease the sun’s glare in their eyes, loud paisley bandannas worn carelessly above their shirt fronts like bibs, yellow cowhide gloves on their hands. Most of the horsemen rode with the reins in one hand, the off hand grasping the saddle horn. Only dudes took a one-handed chance of a quick sidestepping cutting horse shying from a ground rattler and dumping the rider on the hard-baked ground.
They dropped down through a ½ acre arroyo and plunged up the other side, scattering stones and hard earth until the horses stood breathing heavily on the crest and looking down over the small herd of cattle in the next pasture, 300 head, a day’s work to cut and brand and a day’s drive to new grass. Comanche-like, with a yell, as one, the dozen riders spurred their horses and galloped toward the startled cattle. Spring round-up on the Bar RB Ranch had just begun!
One rider, centaur like, horse and man as one, casually unslung his lariat while his mount galloped steadily toward the milling cattle. His right hand tucked the knot of the loop close to his body, feeling the stiffness of the wire reinforced rope, grasping the pony with his knees as the animal chose a calf and turned it, racing along side as the lariat loop grew in girth and seemed to race beside the horse, spinning in the air, only to settle around the head of the calf, tightening as the horse, feet forward and braced, settled his weight on his haunches and jerked the calf off his feet. The rider swung out of the saddle in one fluid motion, dropped to a knee beside the calf, and deftly whipped a pigging string around three of the calf’s feet, keeping him down, flipped the rope off his neck, dropped it over the calf’s fourth leg, and remounted. The horse whirled about and drug the bawling calf to the branding fire and a waiting cowhand.
The cowhand strode from the fire carrying a fiery-ended BarRB branding iron, plunged it against the calf’s flank while the now dismounted rider removed the calf’s testicles with a stockman’s knife and then deftly bobbed the calf’s right ear with the knife, marking it for posterity with the registered earmark of the ranch. The calf was no longer a maverick or an unbranded calf; it belonged to the herd. Now it was a steer, property of the Bar RB.
Quick as greased lightning, the cowboy flung the lariat off the calf. The calf scrambled away, bawling at the top of its lungs, looking for its mother while the cowboy remounted, whirled his horse, and galloped toward another unmarked calf. Dust swirled about the scene. The dry dust permeated everything. The cowboys drew up their bandannas to cover their mouths and noses, gaining some protection from the dust. The sun rose higher in the sky and the day warmed, grew hot, with the heat cutting through the dust and parching horses and riders. Calves were chased through the chaparral and prickly pear cactus, roped, and drug to the branding fires. The morning lengthened but the drumbeat of work continued, minute-by-minute, hour by hour until noon.
Noon came and work stopped. Men and horses gathered near the cook fires and pickup trucks that carried the water and supplies. Saddle cinches were loosened, horses stood resting in the prairie sun with the right rear foot lifted in an arrogant manner. The riders wet their bandanas in a water bucket and wiped caked dust from their faces, or splashed water from Igloo coolers over their heads, anything to wash out the dust from parched mouths and caked faces and hair. And the sun beat down, dry, remorseless, making one think of fire and brimstone preachers and their descriptions of the fires of hell. Quick steaks burned black over hot coals, cold biscuits made that morning, and black coffee for the caffeine fix needed by all hands, a final drink of water, and back in the saddle. The mad choreography began again and continued until dark and the last calf branded.
Tomorrow the herd would be bunched in the morning and driven to the new grass. Eight miles, all day, cutting strays back into the herd, flanking the cattle to keep them from straying, eating dust, pressing the cattle toward a new grazing pasture. Hard riding and lots of it. For every mile covered, horse and rider usually rode it twice or more. In and out, weaving, constantly moving toward a wayward animal, lashing out at it, slapping it with a whipped rope end or a quirt, anything to penetrate its thick hide and make it concede to the command. And finally, the herd delivered, secure in their new grassland, murmuring lowly, moving about the land, at peace, the drive over. The hands turned their mounts toward the ranch house five miles away; its lights glowing faintly in the deepening twilight of the prairie.
Ground owls flutter out and away from the horses’ path. The warmth and heat of the day being replaced by the cool chill of the new evening’s air…and the first stars appearing overhead in the deepening black of the western sky. Famished, these men, hungry, tired, and grimed, ready to end the day, rode on. Three more miles, an hour’s work of grooming and cooling the horses before the men can rest and eat. But the coffee will be hot and black, there’s steak and chili beans in the pot, and a dutch oven full of biscuits and maybe some sopping gravy. Honey for sure. And roundup’s over until September.
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Top-level comments on this article: (2 total)Wow, Mr. Ted, this was really cool and I'm glad you joined searchwarp. Mommy really likes it but is too busy to write anything right now.Why, boy howdy, Miss Laura. Me and ol Bo, my trusty cowpony, are jest plumb tickled that you found this little ol trivia thing exciting. I guess we'll saddle up now and just mosey on over to the shootin range and pick out a new shootin iron. Y'all take care now, you heah. Ted Gragg
Nice. Thank you, I enjoyed it.I am pleased that you enjoyed the article. Holler if you see any stray dogies, we'll see about another roundup. Ted
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