It was an odd sight. As I pushed Rusty's nose through the willows, there he was, hatless, shirt almost torn off, covered in mud and cow snot, cradling a black cow's head in his arms. He was in the middle of the stream, and I could see a severed rope dangling from the bovine's neck.
The year was 1997, and I was cowboying for a big outfit in southern Montana. The owner of the ranch was a wealthy lawyer who lived in Malibu, California, but flew to his ranch almost every weekend to participate in its operation. His name was Gene. The daily chores were overseen by his capable foreman, Roger, whose sentences rarely exceeded four words. We heard a lot of "yep," "nope," "just get it done," and "we'll talk about it."
Gene routinely invited his California cowboy-wannabe friends to the ranch when we worked cattle. It was usually a win-win situation. He got free labor, thank-you notes, and bottles of expensive wine. The slickers got to be cowboys for real under the Big Sky. Most of Gene's invitees rode pretty well, but what they knew about cows you could put in the eye socket of a dead field mouse. Fortunately, for the most part, they were willing and took instructions with smiles and a visible eagerness to please.
We'll call this one fella Dan. Not his real name but it will save him from bunkhouse ragging if he is still out there somewhere volunteering his Western skills. He was a middle-aged lawyer who owned a horse he kept in his back yard somewhere in Los Angeles. He told me he lived next to a big city park which he referred to as his "home range." He seemed to love everything Western. However, his cowboying skills, aside from "moseying" around the park, were mostly acquired watching Western movies and throwing loops at a rubber steer head in his back yard.
The boys and I were entertained by listening to Roger and Dan jaw in the cook shack. Roger, in his laconic manner, would ask Dan what he thought about various issues of the day, including but not limited to gun control, gay rights, women's liberation, and abortion. Dan nervously would get a sense of how Roger felt about those various topics and then would put his thumb up or down to match Roger's opinions.
The ranch was relatively large, including about 50,000 deeded acres and much more in the way of leases.
When we gathered, we gathered in pairs. We were each given powerful walkie-talkies which enabled us to keep in contact with each other at least half of the time. The radios were to guard against gunsell cowboys getting bucked off, knocked unconscious, and never being found. On this particular gather, we were to bring in about 2,000 pairs. The cowboys got located on the circle by Roger and Gene, each pulling a stock trailer full of horses.
I recall it was a cool morning when Roger dropped Dan and me at the end of a road on a high bluff. As we tightened our cinches, Roger glassed the country below.
"Dan," he said, " I see what looks like 20 cows off down by that dirt tank. I want you to ride there and push them down the big draw, gathering whatever else you can find. When you get them out of the canyon onto the flats, keep them moving or they will scatter. Drive them due west to the creek, across the creek, and keep going until you hit a fence. Drive them along the fence, north to the open gate, and into the big pen by the barn at headquarters. When you get to the creek, push them hard or they'll brush up in the willows and you'll lose them. Try not to leave anything behind. Cows are money."
"I got it," said Dan, nervously.
Roger sent me in a different direction. "You know what to do. Try to keep in radio contact with Dan."
I peeled off the bluff, and it wasn't long before I was pushin' a small herd of cows down a draw several ridges over from Dan. I was hoping I could put my bunch with his somewhere on the flats before reaching the creek. However, I never even saw his dust. I did hear two or three garbled radio transmissions from him, but he did not respond when I called back. Later on, I made him out pushing about 40 cows and making progress toward the creek.
From a distance, the stream looked like a green ribbon snaking its way across the brown prairie. I kept my ladies bunched pretty tight as I crowded them toward it. Not far from the willows, I was disturbed by the sight of Dan's horse with an empty saddle grazing and stepping on his reins. I rode over and caught him and tried to get Dan on the radio, but there was no response. I rode downstream and it wasn't long before I found Dan in the middle of the creek. He was wet, cold, and hugging a cow's head as if it were attached to Princess Anne. He was ecstatic to see me.
He looked so pathetic I decided to save the ribbing for later.
I told him to let go of the cow and we'd get on with our gather, but he refused. He showed me that when he let loose of the animal, her nose would dip under the water causing her to suck it in like the intake pipes of a hydroelectric plant. She would then exhale violently, blowing nasty water and snot all over him. He said that he had been going on for quite awhile and his arms were giving out. It was sad the cow was so spent she had quit struggling, but it was amusing watching this man's effort to keep her from drowning.
He told me he would not abandon her under any circumstances, so I roped her and drug her onto a small sandy beach. She lay there motionless but for her shallow breathing.
"She ain't gonna make it, Dan," I told him. "Let's head on in before it gets dark."
He was despondent, but he finally started moving. He'd lost his hat in the creek and his radio in the creek slime. His glasses were bent and broken. I laughed when he emptied his boots of sand, mud, and water. They were nothing more than soggy buckets. One of his spurs was gone and his watch was missing. He pulled his wallet out of his front pocket, and it was a wad of wet leather and cardboard. His shirt was torn open and one sleeve was hanging on by only a couple stitches.
Dan was cold and wet, so I gave him my slicker and found a piece of whang to patch up his bridle reins, which he had managed to break. I helped him into the saddle, and he and I gathered as many cows as we could find and pushed them on into the headquarters.
That night, Dan told his story at supper. He was depressed and agitated that he had lost one of the cows he'd gathered to the boggy mud. He said she looked pitiful and was not struggling and was on the verge of drowning.
Being charged with not leaving anything behind, and with his backyard roping skills, he decided to get a loop on her and pull her out. He got his rope over her head without much trouble, but when he took his dallies and spurred his horse up the creek bank, the bank gave way and caused Blackie to fall and dislodge him. His dallies didn't unwrap and Blackie popped up and started to bolt still attached to the downed cow. The cow started choking so he cut the rope with his pocket knife. Blackie loped off, and Dan, concerned about the cow, rushed out, fell in a deep hole, and went completely under water.
When he reached the cow, he realized she would drown if he didn't help her, so he dedicated himself to that chore.
Dan implored Roger and Gene to go back out with a stock trailer and retrieve the cow. Roger said, "We're all tired. She's a goner. We'll pull her away from the water tomorrow to keep her from fouling the creek."
Gene opined that the coyotes were already feasting on her.
Dan insisted that when he last saw her, she was breathing and, after what he had gone through to keep her alive, it would be "shameful" not to make every effort to bring her in that night.
Roger rolled his eyes, Gene shook his head, and cowboys at the table mumbled some-thing about "dumber than a rock."
Dan finally turned the tide, however, when he offered to pay the vet bills for the cow. He even offered to buy the cow. He was turning into Norman Bates obsessing over the unfortunate critter.
Roger and two of the men loaded horses into a stock trailer, and, assisted by my directions, went out and retrieved the cow.
At breakfast the following morning, Dan wandered in late and announced to those present, "I want everyone to know I just came from the big pen by the barn, and the bogged-down cow is on her feet and trying to eat."
Roger didn't even look up. "Dan, I've pulled several cows out of bogs. That one is not going to survive." Some of the cowboys echoed that opinion with words like "dead meat," "past history," and "buzzard bait."
Dan got emotional. "You are all wrong. I saved that cow's life, and I'm proud of that. It cost me a radio, rope, hat, shirt, spur, watch, wallet, and probably my boots. That cow is going to survive and produce this ranch more calves. When you naysayers see her from now on, you will say, 'Wow, there goes Dan's cow.'" With that, he got up and left. The men looked at each other, shook their heads, and smirked.
After the last biscuit was downed, the boys headed to the barn to saddle up. I walked down with Roger. He and I both wanted to look at the rescued cow. We slipped through the big gate and started pushing our way through the herd. Next to the barn, we found Dan still as a statue, staring in disbelief at his cow. She lay one her side, deceased, deader than an anvil.
Dan's head snapped around when he heard the voice next to me say, "Wow, there goes Dan's cow!"
