Side Trail
THE LONER
John Duncklee
A loner she was, always in her own piece of country, never with the rest.
Went to water at night, she and her calves; every calf she birthed a bull.
I would have liked a heifer to carry on her genes, but gentle, easy to work,
not like her mother.
One horn up, one horn down, I had to name her Crooked Horn.
And wild, damn she was a wild one. Let her see you riding toward her and she'd be gone, tail up and gone, always in the opposite direction, fast as a deer. Always taking her calf close with her, always the biggest calf in the herd, and the wildest, just like old Crooked Horn. Strong genes.
Damn sure had a mind of her own. I understood her wild-eyed look.
"I might wear your brand but you don't own me!"
Nobody would ever own Crooked Horn; somehow I wondered if I even owned her calves. I kept track of her at a distance; branded the other calves at the water holes, not Crooked Horn's. I had to do a small roundup to get her to headquarters. Wasn't another corral to hold her.
I tried to see her once a week, and then she'd calve.
Time to gather a few, and catch her up in the bunch, then drive them all to headquarters, sometimes five miles. Once the big gate shut I had her. Somewhat. Cutting her off her calf became a rodeo. I had to work him while he was small. The Crooked Horn bull calves grew fast. Grew wild. Getting that one branded made the rest easy. Back she'd run, tail up, snorting, I never knew how far.
I sold most cows at eight, not Crooked Horn. She never missed a year calving. Always the heaviest, a pain to work. Worth it.
She disappeared for a couple weeks. I saw her. Damned cancer eye.
She didn't see me. Blind side. Heard me, got nervous and switched her tail,
tried to find me shaking her head. I gathered a few, took her to headquarters, burnt out the cancer. Healed, she ran off with her calf again, tails in the air. A wild one-eyed cow is more than hell to work.
Shipping time. I weaned her six hundred pound steer calf. Hauled her to the auction with the other old ones. She charged into the ring alone, just like a Spanish fighting bull. The old girl snorted loud and clear, pawed at the floor of the ring with her front hooves, looked around with her one eye, then threw dirt and manure on the buyers sitting in the front row.
"Nobody owns me!"
The ring man dodged behind the barricade; I thought she'd break it down.
I turned to my friend as she twisted around, tail in the air, and jumped onto the scale. "Best damned cow ever made a living on the O Bar J," I said.
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