The gap widens every year between country people and city folks. Town-raised kids' only contract to the land is dad's hunting lease or granddad's deer blind. Men looking for steady ranch jobs are 60 years old or over. Families willing to live out of town are rare cases. School bus routes run down the pavement; rural mail routes serve farms on the rivers and subdivided land.

On many a day, were a recording of Gene Autry singing "Empty Saddles in the Old Corral" to come on out here about sundown, the lowest note I'd hit would be high enough to knock a Maria Callas tape off the disk. The older I become, the more maudlin I become about long-ago cowboys and saddle horses dead years ago.

Only select memories remain. The part about "Salty," or maybe it was "Pea Picker Dan" coming back from town a week late in the middle of the work, or "Chico" or "Chief" stumbling and falling on flat ground in the Clay Water Hole pasture fade from sight. Strong in focus is riding off before dawn in a bunch of wild men, striking a fast trot to beat the threat and the rising sun, free in spirit on a stout horse, laughing so hard at the odds of the life, breakfast was hard to hold own.

Instead of wasting time thinking of those days, I need to find a cure for being a cowboy. The last horse I have is stifled. The first horse trader I called was a young fellow over at Ozona. I explained I needed something easy to mount and certified to pass at least four of the five standards of equine sanity. Not a cutting horse or a roping horse, but a gentle pet able to stay under a 35-pound saddle and a 210-pound bulk of humanity fast on the way of becoming equal amounts of inertia.

He proved he understood the part of a graybeard needing a gentle horse by saying, "Yeah I know what you mean, Mr. Noelke, about taking a fall. Ol' Johnny such-and-such got in a horse wreck the other night at a roping at Rankin. Broke some ribs and wrenched his shoulders so bad his elbows are going to be out of line too much to ever rope again."

To regain my attention, he had to tap on his telephone. "Ol' Johnny such-and-such" and I are within months of the same age. Bad thing is our bones are the same age. I signed off as dignified as possible under the circumstances, sending my regards to his grandmother and the rest of his family.

The Department of Agriculture claims Texas leads the country in the 600,000 head of horses reported to be in the state. Every time there's a roping in the park at Mertzon, the figure seems low comparing the amount of custom trailers and fancy haltered horses under the big oak trees around the arena. Supposing the census is correct, from a half to a full percentage point of those four-legged dirt daubers ought to have enough sense to trust to pack an old herder around and across a bitterweed sheep operation to look after a few black cows.

Offers continue to come in to solve my problem. One high-rolling super salesman unloaded a black and white paint gelding over at the house on the highway last week that sent a chill of desperation to the base of my being. Fifty feet from the trailer gate, my father and grandfather pastured hundreds of heads of horses in bands of big chestnut mares and papered stallions.

Proud indeed they were of the "seven h" brand and the bloodlines of their riding stock. Grandfather and the Big Boss worshipped the very tracks those old bangtails made stamping out the grass in the spring and drinking the dirt tanks dry in the summer. And here stood a son and grandson of all that glorious record of horsedom, held in such low esteem as to be offered a black and white paint horse to ride in his dotage.

Other prospects ranged from a housebroken kid horse to an abandoned six year-old entering his third year of not being ridden, or even being penned. Before I had a chance to look at the kid horse, a dude wrangler bought him out at Fort Davis. According to his former owner, he was ideal for trail riding because he'd balk or throw a fit without another rider around. The rancher asked if I'd ever seen one like him. Without going into detail, I told him, "Yes, but I have seen more cowboys who had ridden together to talk than horses who suffered from 'manic loneliness.'"

I never thought about being on foot. I am going to be out at Fort Davis the end of May. Might be a good idea to check on the housebroke kid horse to see how well he's adjusted to community life to project into my future in case I have to move to town ...

May 20, 1999