Emerging Courageous online Magazine - Stories
I Was Once A Cowboy - Roger Kiser
"Silt, Colorado!" hollered the greyhound bus driver, as he pulled off
to the side of the road.
I grabbed my small bag and climbed off the bus. Sitting beside the road was a
large man who was standing beside an old army jeep. "Are you Roger
Kiser?" he asked me. "Yes, Sir," I replied. "My name is Owen
Boulton. I own the Rainbow K Ranch," he said as he stuck out his hand to
shake mine.
I had been sent to Colorado by the Juvenile Judge in Florida so that I could
work on a ranch. It was a program that had been set up to help troubled
teenagers.
Within a week I had been turned into a full fledge cowboy. I had been assigned a
large horse named "Brownie" and had been given a full outfit of
western wear, as well as a list of never ending duties which started at around 4
o'clock each morning. Things went rather well for the first couple of months. We
worked from 4am until 6pm, seven days a week. We bailed hay, branded cattle,
collected chicken eggs, mended fences and shoveled cow manure. It was a never
ending job.
The best part was my horse, Brownie. I guess she had been given that name
because she was brown in color. In addition to my other chores, It was my job to
care for her. I fed her, bathed her and brushed her down on a daily basis. Every
morning when I would come out to collect the eggs from the chicken coop, she was
always waiting for me by the gate. I would walk over and pet her on her side.
She would toss her head backwards and make a strange sound like she was blowing
through her lips. Slobber would fly everywhere. "I bet you could sure
whistle loud if you had some hands," I would tell her. She would stomp her
feet and turn around in a circle.
There were not very many things that I loved on the face of this earth when I
was a young boy. But that horse was one thing that I would have died for.
After we ranch hands had eaten our breakfast, I was told that I would have to go
with several of the older men and repair fences up on the northern range. We
loaded the jeep with fencing materials and tools and off we went. It was almost
7pm when we got back to the ranch. As we drove up to the barn, I saw about
twenty ranch hands all sitting around in a circle. I got out of the jeep and
walked toward the large crowd. "What's going on?" I asked. "It's
your horse, Brownie. She's dead," said one of the men. Slowly I walked up
to where Brownie was laying in the corral. I bent down and petted her on her
side. It took everything I had to keep from
crying in front of all those men.
All at once, the corral gate opened and Mr. Boulton came riding in on an old
tractor. He began scooping out a large hole right next to Brownie. "What's
he gonna do?" I yelled out. "We always bury the horses right where
they drop," said one of the ranch hands. I stood to the side while he dug
the hole for Brownie. I would wipe the tears from my eyes as they rolled down my
cheeks. I will never forget that feeling of sadness for as long as I live. When
the hole had been dug, the men all stood back so that Brownie could
be moved into the large hole. Mr Boulton lowered the large tractor scoop and
moved toward Brownie. "PLEASE MR. OWEN SIR! Please don't move Brownie with
that tractor bucket. You'll cut her and mess her up!" I yelled out at him.
I ran out in front of the tractor, waiving my hands and arms up into the air.
"Look here boy," said Mr. Boulton. "We have no choice but to do
this when a horse dies. She is just too heavy to move by hand." "I'll
get her in the hole. I swear I will Mr Owen, sir." I screamed as loud as I
could. I ran over to Brownie and I pushed on her head as hard as I could, but
she barely moved. I pushed and pushed -- as hard as I could -- but her body was
just too heavy. Nothing I tried to do would move her any closer toward the hole.
Finally, I stopped pushing and I just lay there in the dirt with my head resting
against Brownie's side. "Please don't use that bucket scoop on
Brownie," I kept saying, over and over.
One at a time, the ranch hands began to get down off their horses. Each
positioned himself around the large brown horse and they began to push and pull
with all their might. Inch by inch, Brownie moved toward the
large hole in the ground. All at once she began to slide downhill. I raised her
head, as best I could, so that her face would not be scarred. The next thing I
knew, I was being pulled down into the hole. Suddenly, everything went totally
silent. I just sat there at the bottom of the hole with Brownie's head resting
on my lap. Dust and dirt was settling all around me. Slowly, I got to my feet
and I placed her head flat on the ground. Then I positioned each of her legs so
that they were straight. I removed my western shirt and I placed it over her
face so that dirt would not get into her eyes. I stood there crying as my best
friend was being covered with dirt.
Most of that night I stayed in the barn cleaning Brownie's stall. I cried until
I could cry no more. I guess I was just too embarrassed to go back to the
bunkhouse with the rest of the ranch hands. Early the next morning, I walked
back to the bunkhouse to shower and change clothes before going out to collect
the chicken eggs. As I
entered the small wooden house, the ranch hands were up and getting dressed.
Laying on my bunk was eight dollars and some change. On a match book cover was
written, "Buy yourself a new western shirt."
When I looked up, all the men were smiling at me. One of them said, "You
may be a city boy R.D. (that's
what they always called me) but you definitely have the heart that it takes to
be a real honest to goodness cowboy." I wiped my swollen red eyes and I
smiled real proud like.
Roger Kiser [email protected]
Write Roger and tell him what you think of his story.