From The Saddle
Mama collected the lunch plates and ran hot water in the sink. One basin was soapy and the other was clear for rinsing. Daddy stood me on a chair and it was my job to rinse and dry dishes while he washed. The rinse water was blistering hot and I grabbed at knives, forks, plates, and tea glasses so as not to burn my little fingers. The scalding water didn’t bother Dad as he chattered with Mama. I put the silverware and glass into the drying rack and Mama put everything into the cabinets. Daddy helped me lift the bigger pots and pans and I perched them on the edge of the drain board, dried them, and then handed them over to be put away. Meanwhile, our ranch hand, Garland Nelson, was lounging under a tree in the front yard.
“I’m going to take Garland and walk across the road. We’re going to chop the yaupons out of the cattleguard going up to Grandma’s House. Herman, go turn Missie loose and let her out of the backyard. She can come over to where we’re working.”
Daddy was referring to his Golden Collie. He was never an animal lover and grudgingly let me and Mama keep Trixie, her terrier, and Hildegard, a mama cat, in the house. But, Missie was his favored dog. Supposedly, the collie could smell screw worms and helped him find infected calves during the outbreak. Now, he was telling me to let her out of the backyard.
I was five years old and had moved to the other side of the kitchen after finishing with the dishes. Now, I hesitated. Mama looked at me frustrated. “You heard your Daddy do what he says. Go turn Missie loose.” I stared at them not moving. A voice was telling me “No!”
“No Mama, we shouldn’t turn Missie loose.”
“You do what your Daddy says!”
“Aw shoot, it don’t matter. I don’t care if the dog is loose or not.”
“What’s the matter with you? Go turn Missie loose.”
“Mama…,” I stood there shaking my head.
“You go!” It was the first time, to my recollection, that the little angel and the little devil that sit on our shoulders and whisper to us were having a battle. Even for adults, it’s sometimes hard to know which of the two is doing the whispering. Or, maybe it was inborn primal instincts that prompted me. Whatever the case, I knew not to let that dog loose. But, I was bound by orders and went to the yard.
Missie came forward with her head down and I slipped the chain choke collar off around her head. She ran to the yard gate and waited. Now, the excitement was building and worries forgotten. I unlatched the gate and we tore from the yard, headed down the driveway, and raced towards the road. On the other side, Daddy and Garland were whacking yaupons with a single- bit axe. Missie got in the lead and I barreled headlong trying to catch up. The Golden Collie bounded ahead happy and headed to her master. Then – Daddy looked at us and yelled, “STOP!” The dog skidded to a halt in the middle of the Shaw’s Bend Road and I stumbled and parked at the edge. A county dump truck rumbled past in front of my face and I heard Missie scream. My next visage was of the collie spinning, yelping, and biting at her broken back. Daddy yelled again, “Go to the house and tell Mama to bring a gun!” I charged away. The scene was too much. The shrieking death splashed against my world saturating me. Mama started to bring Daddy the gun but he didn't wait. He finished Missie’s agony with the axe.
The lesson from this event was never mentioned by the adults. They saw it as a close call for me and a tragedy for the dog. But, I knew. I should have left her tied. Always listen to your instincts!
Forty nine years later: A fire in Bear Creek kept us from camping in our normal outfitter's spot on the East Fork of the Wind River. We were relegated to setting camp at the East Fork Trailhead. The arrangement spoiled our regular routines. But, we had a cheerful cook, healthy horses, solid guides, and a new gung-ho wrangler. It occurred to me that his job was simplified. Instead of grazing the spare horses and mules in mountain meadows; he could turn them out in the broad river bottom. The only danger was having them wander off into the Shoshone Reservation, but that wasn’t apt to happen with a haystack of alfalfa sitting nearby. This ease in scheduling allowed the wrangler to explore the hunting grounds more than normal.
Despite the disadvantage with campsites, on the first day, my archery hunter scored a tremendous 6x6 herd bull. No doubt our efforts were intentional, but the kill was more a blessing than guiding skills. On the fourth day, the wrangler approached me. “There’s a dead bull in Elk Springs with a grizz sitting on it. Let’s go get the horns!”
The inner voice wailed, “No, no, no!” But, the kid seemed determined to try with or without me. So…We rode up to the springs and I was singing an Aggie Band ditty at the top of my voice. He rode around a tree and stopped; wide-eyed and pointing. I rounded the tree the other way and saw that I was between him and the bear. It was huge, way too close, 20 yards, popping its jaws, grumbling, and swaying a head bigger than a washtub side to side. In an instant, I noted the wrangler was riding a better horse, and I was first in line to be the bear’s next meal. Yes sir, always listen to your instincts!
