Go back to the era of crank telephones to a ranch house on the banks of dry Spring Creek. It is night. Electricity hasn't reached this far west, so the man answering the phone stands in darkness. West wind strikes relentless blows against the porch screen wire, popping the net in and out. The house moans and whistles from cracks up under the caves. Mark the season late winter; the time, the opening year of the Big Drouth of 1950.

The conversation begins with a loud scratchy voice over the receiver:

The Boy replies: "Hello. Yes sir, your mares and colts are on feed. Jose's brother broke his ..."

The Boss: "In the morning when Mr. Heynes opens the depot, order enough cars to Noelke Switch to ship all the Hereford cattle billed to Cresson, Texas in care of me. Pair 'em up right; load 'em light. You understand? I am going to wait here at the Blackstone Hotel (champagne and chandelier hostelry) in Fort Worth to be on hand to receive the cattle."

The Boy: "Yes, sir. Those bigger calves are going to be hard to pair. Their mothers aren't giving much milk. (Interrupted) Yes, sir. We'll take our time. (Pause) Yes, sir, you were right; 'Ramona' has a filly colt."

The Boss: "I can't be at both places at one time. Just do what I say. (Raises voice to compensate for long distance.) PAIR 'EM UP AND LOAD 'EM LIGHT. BYE."

The Boy: "Yes, sir. Goodbye."

The next morning I pulled on the Boy's boots. I was 21 years and three weeks old. I'd help load calves and sheep on boxcars. Old cows going to Fort Worth were the only grown stuff I'd ever shipped. The auction ring owner in San Angelo told me how many cars to order. The depot agent emphasized the big favor the Santa Fe Railroad was doing by agreeing to haul the cattle. Mr. Haynes detested customers, especially volume accounts with a private railroad siding.

In two days, we started gathering. Seven traps surrounded the shipping pens. The plan was to cut the cattle in small enough bunches to be able to work off a carload at a time in a big rush. For I don't know how many days, we sorted cattle on horseback and resorted the mistakes the next morning along the fenceline. Calves crawled out in the country lane; big bag cows pushed under water gaps. Bulls broke down a gate at the Clay Water Hole to go bellowing into the herd. On occasions, we just had mix-ups and miscounts. My tally book looked like a scorecard at the big Interscholastic League track meet.

Must have taken 14 days to work the whole ranch. The corrals were so large, the pen work had to be on horseback. All the railroad gates latched saddle horn high. By the last load, horses struggled to keep upright in the deep powdery dirt. The men, blinded by dust, choked out expletives, chorusing the eternal lament so dear to a cowboy's life.

On shipping day, the section crew stayed in the way on the loading chute and punched every cow at the wrong time. One pen of cattle close to the tracks, spooked by the engine's brakes, piled up in a corner, breaking the backs of four head. The brakemen shouted "Hurry," but I don't remember my reply. In a break in the dust, a steady hand said, "I'd cry if I didn't think they were going to a better home."

The cook brought dinner to a tin shed right on the job. We changed horses in the shipping pens at mid-day. I dropped my pencil and had to use marking chalk to bill the last four cars. The train pulled out in mid-afternoon. Mr. Haynes took personal offense at the delay. Jose helped Filimeno on his horse. (A gate had slammed him into the fence.) Riding back to the house, we never made a sound except to cough.

Reset the scene to nightfall in the same house the next night. All is so quiet, the telephone ringing resounds in the stillness.

Boy: "Hello. Yes, sir. Yes, your mares and colts are doing fine. (Pause) No, no horses crippled in the work. I had to take Filimeno to the bus this ... (Interruption) Were my counts right?"

Boss: "Counts don't matter, boy. That 1909 model of a crooked-railed, sapsucker (edited version) of a railroad company unloaded the cattle in Fort Worth, 30 miles down line from Cresson. Mixed those cows; may have weaned some calves. Now, by gawd, I gotta borrow a saddle and go straighten up that mess. Be sure to look after 'Ramona.' She goes back to some mighty fancy horseflesh."

By the end of summer, the cattle had to be shipped further north to Kansas. Cold weather hit too quick to grow winter hair. The sad story ended with three-inch squares of the ranch brand off dead cows being tacked to a barn wall and a final dispersion on a packer market in Kansas City.

March 23, 2000