First Mexican cowboy to work in this neighborhood was in the 1930s on the Vancourt Brothers ranch. Reason the date is clear in memory is that in the decade of the 30s we wound up shipping much stuff from the Divide down to the railroad. Along then we trailed our calves and lambs to Noelke Switch via the Vancourt ranch, where the Mexican and his family lived.

Another reason I remember, he was the first cowboy in my young life to leave his horse saddled in the middle of the day. Several times, I watched him ride up to the bunkhouse, tie his horse hard and fast, and fold his stirrups over the seat of his funny-looking Old Mexico saddle.

Mother tried to explain that people have different customs, but she couldn't convince me they were so strange they left their horses saddled in the hot sun. I'd read enough J. Frank Dobie stories to know the state used lots of Texas Rangers in the old days to patrol the Rio Grande. I figured the reason the cowboy kept his horse saddled was so he could make a fast getaway back across the border some 165 miles away. I further knew if the Rangers shot him, he'd be buried in an unmarked grave, face down, for leaving his horse saddled at dinner.

Small bay, black mane and tail horses from Coahuila were our next exposure to Mexico. Agile, unbroken little devils, they needed a saddle soaking on their backs day and night. The biggest part of their body was their heart and the huge brands on their hips. The first summer we had what we called espanoles on the ranch was the summer I earned my Indian name, "Git Back On."

I spent a lot of mornings mounting, catching, and remounting a horse named Pete, who expressed his resentment of an Americano by watching for the chance to buck him off. Pete liked an audience. Was very responsive to day hands. Wanted to wait until we were about to split up at the pasture gate to put on his show. Had it been my choice, I'd have preferred a private showing of my clumsy efforts at horse tuning. But sure as we had extra help, I'd end up on the ground, cursing and trying to hold Pete by my last remaining rein.

Fifteen years or longer passed before unpapered aliens were to became common this far from the Border. The ranches in the cow jungle of South Texas and the salt marshes of the Coastal Plains worked Mexican vaqueros a long time ahead of us. A few men drifted in on the shortgrass outfits, but were used more as ground help than the aerial pursuit of being a cowboy.

To jump ahead, the "wets" became legal passport help. Soon, the passport families moved into town to school the kids and became town folks with high-paying jobs. In sum, the ranchers went back to work, the last Mexican cowboys left were over 60 years old, and Social Security benefits were fast terminating their careers.

Last year, I did contact Mexico by buying a gentle horse from there, a dun pony from so far down in the desert country of Coahuila, our horse trap looked lush to him. He grazed all winter on the six-minute grama grass stubs. On the days I rode him and fed him by himself, he'd leave over half his oats in the trough. He refused sweet feed; ignored range cubes spilled in the back of the pickup.

He also became fidgety when I brushed off his back. Acted like a curry comb was a strange weapon and balked four feet from the trailer gate in sheer terror of a wooden floor. From the looks of the marks on his back, I knew he'd been ridden hard under half-rigged saddles and dirty blankets. Every time I bridled him, he made those awful rollers in his nose, meaning distrust. But one morning, he was a completely different horse. Didn't have to be hemmed up in the corner to catch, or show the slightest signs of distrust. He stood still to be brushed and was easy to saddle.

Slowly the change came to light. For breakfast, I'd had corn tortillas soaked in a ranchero sauce on scrambled eggs. Right there before my eyes was the simple answer to his dietary and behavior problem. On the next trip to San Angelo, I bought 50 pounds of masa harina (corn tortilla flour) from Pop's Tortilla Factory. Every morning, I sprinkle a cup full on his oats. Now he devours every grain; nickers when he sees me leave the house for the barn.

Wish I knew where ol Pete's bones are on the ranch. Old tricksters like he was probably have an ant bed or a black wasp's hole over their grave. Been so long ago I can't remember if he ate gringo oats. One thing I do know, I sure didn't mind turning him loose in the middle of the day.

May 25, 2000