Jingling the Horses

This is another story from my time just after graduating college when I spent several months on a 137,000 acre ranch. At this particular duty station, it was me and five boys in a barn taking care of 25-30 horses, some nearby cattle and a buffalo herd (actually, we didn't really do anything with the buffaloes except avoid them.)

Roping the bear

While working as a wrangler on a 137,000 acre Northern New Mexico ranch (you know, the typical I-don’t-know-what-in-the-hell-to-do-with-my-life phase) my first ranch station was at Clark’s Fork where it was me and four boys in a barn. We took care of the 30+ head of horses there in addition to whatever cattle was there at the time. (Cattle were moved from pasture to pasture throughout the ranch much more often than the horses or burros.) We also repaired fences, did minor veterinary procedures, re-shod horses when needed and even gave dude rides to backpacking and/or camping groups in the area – almost always Boy Scout Troops.

This area of New Mexico was flush with Black Bears. Occasionally we’d have to scare one away from trying to break into our grain bin or reroute a job through the woods, but really the bears mostly wanted to avoid us. A sentiment we wranglers shared with the bears although over the years the bears had gotten more and more comfortable with human "things."

One lazy, sunny day in June, though, the boys changed their minds. We were all cleaning tack or whittling or grooming our personal horses in front of the barn when a bear neared one of our corrals which fortunately were empty since it was late afternoon – being in the middle of frightened, trapped horses has always been a bad plan.

I reckon that bear had gotten into the boys’ whiskey stash in the creek bed. The bear stunk and the whiskey bottle was all busted to pieces. The boys and their collective thinking… all it took was for one of them to turn off their brain, and the others jumped on the absurd idea of “roping the bear.”

“I’m gonna get that bear,” Mike said.

“Yeh!” “Yeah – let’s get him!” The other boys all pitched in various shouts of support. Before I knew it, all four of ‘em had mounted up and were chasing that bear. Even in the thick woods, the brainless boys were swirling their lassos overhead.

Calmly, methodically, I mounted my horse Questa, the fastest mustang (wild horse) in New Mexico. Questa and I caught up to the boys easily. They had surrounded a very angry 6+ foot tall… 200+ pound… Black… Bear.

As the bear roared to standing full height and arms stretched out, Questa and I eased up behind a couple of the guys and said, “Boys… I’ve just got one question for y’all.”

“What?” “We’re busy!” “We got him!” These were the responses shouted in my direction.

“Well,” I said. “What exactly do y’all plan to do with that big ol’ angry bear once y’all rope it?”

Silence.

Then the lassos began to go limp, and the bear went back to all fours as the boys withdrew their horses. As they cleared out from around it, the bear slowly and cautiously headed back into the forest. We, too, turned around and slowly made our way back to the barn in silence – that is, until the last clearing before the barn. That's when I heard Big Mike mutter, "Well, I coulda had him."

The Three Wise Men

        After college I took a temporary job as a wrangler on a 137,000 acre ranch in northern New Mexico. My first duty station was in a remote location – It was me and five boys in a barn. We had no electricity and no running water – just an outhouse and a rainwater shower.
On occasion, we would ride our horses bareback down to the little road to the little town (population: 800) and leave them in the little field while we went to the saloon. Nestled in the historic St James Hotel, there was an old saloon where the likes of Wyatt Earp, Buffalo Bill Cody, Jesse James and Black Jack Ketchum rested their heads – and shot up the ceiling in a few places. It was a great treat to go to town since we had no real entertainment out there in the woods – just us, thirty to fifty horses and some cattle.
Once we got to the lower field, we took the reins off our horses, threw ‘em over our shoulders and set out on foot. We were all dressed pretty much the same in short-sleeved button-down shirts, blue jeans and cowboy boots – plus or minus chaps. This was standard wear in Cimarron, and we fit in seamlessly as we strolled the half a mile or so to the hotel where it sat – and still sits – on the edge of town. There we’d spend a couple of hours imbibing, playing pool and telling tales.
The very first time we entered the saloon, I pulled the bartender aside. She was a skinny thing, probably in her thirties. She was definitely a local – knowing her way around those parts and around all those cowboys, too.
“Ma'am, you see those boys?” She glanced over at the boys – all Texans – and nodded her head. “I’m out at camp with them.” I stopped there and looked at her. She met my eyes. “Me. And them.”
Her eyes got wider. “You’re the only girl? Out there with all those guys?”
“That’s right.” I answered.
“Sounds dangerous.”
“They’re a good bunch of boys – protective of me, actually. However… I do not intend to get intoxicated and return to a barn full of boys.”
“I see.” She said.
“Here’s a contribution to your tip fund.” I handed her a twenty dollar bill. “I’d appreciate it if you’d help me out.”
She took the money from me and said, “Darlin’, don’t you worry about a thing.”
From then on we had a regular agreement. Whenever she came around to collect empty beer bottles and bring another round to our rowdy crew, she picked up my full beer and gave me a new one. Whenever the boys ordered shots, she gave me a virgin one.
Occasionally, one of the boys was chatting her up, and she had to give me a liquor shot with the boys. They were most fond of ordering “The Three Wise Men” – Jack, Jim, and Jose. I wanted no part of those wise men, thank you very much. The bartender would give me a little sign or just stare at me really hard when she’d had to pour me a real one. Then, when we made our toast, I’d lift my drink and throw my head back just like the boys – only I’d throw my shot over my shoulder and onto the floor. Usually they were too drunk to notice, and the bartender just discreetly cleaned it up as we moved back over to pool table and our bar stools. On the off chance they did notice, we’d all just laugh it up that I was too drunk and had missed my mouth.
After the boys got good and sloshed, we’d headed back up the road – the distance not long enough to sober ‘em up before we reached the horses. This field, while smaller than most we had, was still an acre or two. We had to catch our horses in there. Generally, my palomino gelding Questa was usually fairly easy to catch – not easy to ride as he had a tendency to buck off riders he didn’t like. So, most nights I was sitting astride Questa before the boys had caught their horses.
Oh the scene of four or five boys weaving around drunk trying to catch a horse. Even worse was when one of ‘em tried to mount up. Sober as a saint, I’d watch as one managed his way up only to fall off on the other side or see one get halfway up only for the horse to run out from underneath him. Now that was entertainment.
Eventually, we would all be ready. Then we would ride the half hour or so in the dark back to the barn. The boys would pass out in their cots as I settled down in mine behind the particle board partition, snuggling in for dreams of five drunken cowboys and three wise men.