The other day I was taking the long way home from Snyder
after giving a program to the Snyder Garden Club. The little quarter‑ton truck was fishtailing
on a muddy, unpaved stretch of Mitchell County Road 1308 a little east of Iatan
Flats, right north of Tommy and Howard Morrison’s spread when I spotted a
cowboy sitting dejectedly on his saddle.
Instead of the saddle being draped over a pony, it was slung over a big
mesquite limb hanging out almost to the road.
He had his arms crossed, and his chin was slumped to his chest. “What the hey?” I thought to myself as I pulled to a
stop. “What is he doing here?”
The
cowboy was about my age, or so it appeared, and he had a weather-beaten and
furrowed face. His jeans were caked with
red mud all along his left side, like his pony had crow‑hopped him right off
and he had slid along plowing up the pasture.
“Blankety-blank
badger,” he muttered. Thinking I had not
heard him right, I asked, “Say what?”
“Will
you give me a ride into Center Point on your wagon?”
Although
mystified by the choice of words and choice of destination, I said sure. He slid down, slung the saddle over his
shoulder and, limping to the truck, easily flipped it into the bed of the
pickup. As he settled in, he gave out a
deep groan, like he was hurting bad. He didn’t buckle up.
Knowing
my west Texas etiquette, I did not say anything. Nor did he for more than ten minutes. As we took the little curve at the base of
Wildhorse Mountain, he finally spoke up.
“Stop
here a second, will ya? I want to see if
ol’ Hub is still here.” He opened the
window and whistled, sticking two fingers of the same hand in his mouth. He waited a minute, and then did it
again. This time we heard an answering
whinny. “Hot diggety dog, the ol’ boy is
still alive! Okay, let’s go on.” As we started moving, the cowboy started
talking.
“Ol’
Hub was the best cutting horse this country ever knew. I rode him for years over on the ‘8s.’ That horse taught me how to cowboy when I
first came to this country. He could
feint and fake even the hoariest old mossyhorn, and I swear he could see
through the cedar brakes and know where the best way was to chouse a steer out
of a thicket. A couple years ago we had
a big reunion up at Vincent, and advertised a big purse for the cutting horse
competition. I knew Hub had been turned
loose in this pasture when he reached twenty and was getting crickety in the
knees. I came down here and looked up
Mr. Bud, the owner of this spread, and asked if I could borrow the old horse
for a spell. Hub was all “ganted,” with
ribs like corrugated pants on his hide, hip-bones sticking out like hat
racks. I fed him on soaked oats, and in
a few days his ribs disappeared. After
ten days I took him out for a ride and when we found a few head of steers that
old horse came alive. He did his work
with all of his old vim and fire. He was
dancing, let me tell you. I rode him up
to Vincent, and by golly he and I cut nine steers out of the herd in five
minutes. He was too old to match the
speed of the younger mounts, but his split-second timing made the day – he
never wasted one step, and I swear he had the cows boogered – they knew he knew
what they were thinking. I let him cut the
last steer out without using the reins.
I gave Mr. Bud half my prize money, and he promised he would leave out
oats for Hub ever-day.”
By
then the setting sun had turned the western sky psychedelic, a dozen shades
each of blue and purple and orange and pink.
We were back on paved roads and driving along north of Coahoma in
between cotton fields interspersed with equipment yards.
“The only thing that ever dismayed Hub was the
Booger Y’s boogerman. One year we had a
big blowing snowstorm that lasted for days – even when snow was not falling
from the sky, snow kept blowing. The
wind was blowing out of the east, and the cattle started drifting. They kept drifting west, completely over the
Llano, and they kept going until they hit the Booger Y’s Sand Camp. I was sent over to gather ‘em up, along with
a couple of other riders.”
“The
Boogerman had his throat cut ear to ear, and his head flopped over
backwards. He’d sneak in to the milk
cows at night, and squirt streams of milk into his throat. If somebody tried to ride after him and rope
him, he would jump the seven-foot fence around the milking pen and bound away
like a muley deer. He would stay right
out in front of you, as if he knew the length of your rope, and let me tell
you, it is disconcerting to be riding after a man, and the fellow has his head
back between his shoulders and looking upside down at you square in the eye
every step of the way. Hub refused to
run after him after the first time.”
I
still had not said anything, not even a “you don’t say.” The cowboy told one more story. “Hub was the horse Windy Peterson was riding
when he roped the steam engine back at Sweetwater. We had teased Windy about his roping skills
until he was out to prove he could rope anything. That poor boy would snag fence posts the
opposite direction of the nag he was assigned and by golly he would get mad at
our laughing. One Sunday we went to
town, to get a haircut and a bath and eat something besides beef and
beans. Windy begged to ride Hub that
morning, and as we rode in to town, he stood in his stirrups and yelled out
that he was going to show us, then started galloping alongside the train as it
was pulling out of the station, shaking out a loop as they went. I put the spurs to the horse I was riding, and
right after the rope settled over the smokestack and the train started pulling
strong on the dallied rope I caught up and cut that rope with the knife I carry
in my boot.”
There
is a wealth of stories here on the Llano Estacado. My thanks to the now long‑gone Tanner Laine
of Lubbock, Judge R.C. Crane of Sweetwater, Shine Phillips of Big Spring, and
Ben Moore, Sr. of Tahoka. Stories of
cowboys roping trains were once told as if they happened in every town from
Sweetwater to Pecos. Very special thanks
are due Paul Patterson of Crane for inspiring my retelling of his Booger Y’s
Boogerman tale. Hub was famous up on the
Double Mountain Fork of the Brazos a hundred years ago. Thanks to the above folks for their collection
of the stories of the land, my little truck is jam‑packed full of ghosts when I
am out moseying around, and their tales make the miles go by “right nicely.”
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