April 25,1996

Cold rains and late snow and sleet brought sadness across the land the Indians called "Fallow Nest." Two weeks ago, "a scattered thunderstorm" forecast turned into a 30 degree day of hard sleet and whirling snowflakes.

Fresh shorn sheep and goats humped up and died in droves. Bovine dust pneumonia turned into cold weather pneumonia followed by outbreaks of calf scours. Drouth had once again punished the weary herders. This time with ice and snow and death.

On still mornings by the gate over on the highway at the bottom of Cowboy Hill, I stood stricken as the goosenecks wheeled by, loaded with blacks and baldies and decks of woolies in an eternal stream of last year's hope to recovery. Late of an evening, the same caravan returned hauling big bales of bleached out coastal hay and stacks of blue and brown sacked goods, piloted by men or women as noncommittal as panels of jurors formed into a motorcade.

Sun blinded the drivers going either direction. Faces hid underneath black hat brims and eyes were shaded by dark glasses. The greybeards, I knew, sat on the passenger side, chauffeured by whiteheaded wives in expensive automobiles. The whine of the tires against the asphalt seemed to work like music used to bring on a spell. I waved by custom, but rarely rated a nod.

Names to fit the brands on the trailer noses had to be made up to link to the ranchers. Texas license plates no longer identify the county of origin. Some stockyard reporter I'd make in this age. After the first three old cowboys hobbled by, I wouldn't be able to open a story without waiting for a convention to check the name tags.

News of the death losses was days reaching the ranch. We organized a lamb marking crew as soon as the weather turned warm again. All the men were passport Mexicans. They probably knew right away who had sheared their sheep and goats, but 12 hours in an 85 degree sheep pen picking up lambs to mark tends to postpone the urge to gossip to future dates. Also, I was in such a royal good humor to have an audience and a rain, I didn't give them a chance to spread any news. I started helping mark lambs in my childhood. The way I always figure it, anyone within earshot should be thrilled to know that fact.

Once I wrote of a young cowboy named Frank Lindley, or he was young when the story took place, who rode a bucking bronc down the main street of Sherwood, Texas. His pack horse rimfired the pony and caused the wreck. Frank's Colt six shooter slipped out of his waistband. The hammer hit the saddlehorn and shot a 44/40 bullet at 2500 feet a second to lodge beneath his jawbone. Men rushed out from the front of the post office frightened by the blood streaming from his face. One shouted, "Frank, are you hurt?" "Nah," he said, "this sapsucker can't shoot me off or buck me off, either."

Frank came to mind after I heard of the snow and sleet wiping out the flocks of folks who were trying so hard to raise a few lambs and kid goats on a dry spring. They were shot at the same range as the bullet that hit Mr. Lindley ...