January 7, 1993

On the second run of the Southern Orient Railroad, which was formed to buy out the Santa Fe's tracks, our work had moved within earshot of the engine's horns and the clatter of the boxcars. Alone, on horseback, nostalgia brought back how my maternal grandfather and grandmother said they rejoiced when the first train delivered their mail and brought supplies that had been on the docks in Fort Worth nine hours before.

Also of grand impact were the cattle markets, the far away summer pasturage for lanky Texas steers in the bluegrass part of Kansas, and the change in the drayage of wool to the Gulf Coast. Not to be left out in the change was the passenger service carrying kids to college in the East and brining grandmas back west who'd grown to feeble to ride the hacks and stage coaches.

Railroading today resembles that of other times about as much as present day interstate truck stops are like the genteel atmospheres of the hotel lobbies and busy Dobbs Houses of those days. Big booms in sulfur markets, or complex contracts to move oil, or unexpected freight to or from Mexico determine the fate of the new Southern Orient line.

Every time I cross the tracks going to the ranch, I stop, hoping to hear the train coming. Weeks ago, a freight came by made up of a green-and-black rusty engine and five tank cars all bearing a chipped sign, "The Burlington Northern Railroad Company."

It didn't take long for the assemblage to pass, due to the short length of the train. But speed-wise, has our famous train robber Black Tom Ketchum still been around, he'd probably have offered them his horse to go ahead to flag the crossings at Barnhart and Big Lake.

No doubt the train was authentic. Over on the downwind side of ht tracks a locked wheel brake showered a barrage of sparks as sure to set fire to the grown-up right-of-ways as lightning strikes are connected to thunderstorms.

If the train had stopped at our crossing I could have told the engineer he was too late to scare this outfit. In 1956 a coal car derailed 40 feet from the southeast corner of the horse trap at the old Ranch. Fifty tons of coal poured out on the ground and over the fence.

On the day in March when the Atcheson Topeka and Santa Fe Company reserves to set fire to all their mountains of spilled coal, I fell down on my knees in front of a section foreman and offered to pledge one pint of blood a week in his account in San Angelo for the rest of my days.

The plea reached such dramatic heights his tears soaked he red bandanna. We were standing on the tracks, braced against a roaring west wind, overlooking the coal dump. He had within his power to keep coal soot floating into our headquarters for 50 years and create a fire hazard that would last twice that long. Wailing like an Irish actor, I told the foreman that everyone of my little ole kids would grow up with black lung disease from coal smoke.

Fate or luck or high drama saved the day. Months later a gang unloaded a crane and swept the right-of-way clear down to the last chunk of coal.

Hopes are high that the small new railroad can survive and keep the route open to the Pacific Coast of Mexico. It's lucky the Southern Orient hasn't read how much land the state gave to the oldtime railroads, or they'd be up to tricks a lot worse than starting grass fires

June 24, 1965

    It's hard to say whether it was the drouth of the 1950s or a smaller calamity such as the summer of 1964 that paralyzed the portion of my boss's brain where the impulse to spend money is located.

           Either way, it was a historic lick because it left a permanent change in his attitude toward ranch expenses.

            Probably it was the shipwreck of '64. If I recall correctly, that was when he began throwing such monumental hissies over matters that should have gone unnoticed. Yes, I believe it was that tragic summer because, prior to that time, he didn't raise the roof over every sack of oats we bought for the saddle horses; and if six bottles of catsup on the grocery charge account cause him to thrash about in the manner of a Berkeley, Calif., college riot, I had not been present when that particular item was on the bill.

            Whatever damaged his brain, it should have been reported to the keepers of medical history. The experience changed him so that it is doubtful if the frugal guardian of the lights in the White House has ever reached such a passion for strict budgeting as my boss now displays.

            Therefore, when he informed me last week that we were going to make the annual ram sale in San Angelo, I wouldn't have been more surprised to learn that Cassius Clay had stood up in a Moslem meeting and told them that being Abdul the Boxing Champion was for the birds and he was off to Hollywood to join the legitimate toe-dancing profession.

            Not only did we attend the sale, we bought five stud bucks with gay abandon — just as if he hadn't missed the crest of this year's good lamb market by failing to call our lamb buyer 25 seconds before the market broke.

            And as if it were merely myth that every high-priced sire we had ever purchased had either died from charging his reflection in a water trough or became so crippled and exhausted in quarreling with his pasture mates that he passed on without leaving more than a dozen heirs, we sat among the buyers right at ringside.

            We bought bucks with fleeces so long that, if the wool could have been transferred to the Hunchback of Notre Dame, he would have looked smoother than a watermelon, and there would have been enough wool left over to make two Navajo ewes look like finewool champions.

            It was quite a sale, with the auctioneer chattering in his foreign tongue and my boss far removed from the violent role he assumes at the ranch when he finds that one of us has charged a small length of rope to his account.

            Two of my contemporaries were among the consignors — gents who had attended the same kind of country school as myself. But when they began selling bucks for $150 up to $500 easier than I'd peddled some cutback lambs for 15 cents a pound, I began to wonder if they hadn't gone to a night school in later years.

            Anyway, we bought the bucks and conned a neighbor into hauling them back to the ranch free of charge. I am still astounded at the change in my boss, but not enough to suggest that, since we own so much high-priced stock, he surely will want to pay better wages to the man who looks after the valuable animals.

            As a matter of fact, instead of thinking of a raise, I am more concerned about how he plans to absorb so much capital investment outlay by cutting down on his operational expense.

            As you may have gathered, there isn't much left to cut on, unless he takes up the habit of another member of the family who used to winter his hands on woodpeckers killed with a BB gun. —(06/24/65)