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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Bowdeezer
By John B. Fincher
It was a dry, slightly cloudy day in the early fall of the year when we were working a few unbroken Mustangs. The weather was cool with a feel of oncoming rain and the ponies were frisky.
"Red River" James Thorpe and Victor Garza were putting a saddle on a roan pony. Red was holding the pony's hackamore and Victor was working with the cinch.
Red looked up to watch a small flock of geese as they flew overhead, heading South for the winter. The roan sensing an opening took a nip at Red's shoulder. He missed the meat but got enough shirt to rip the upper sleeve. Red jumped back as the roan threw his head up and twisted his rear toward Victor who had stepped back from the action. Kicking his left foot out he missed Victor but it was close enough to get a few angy Mexican words flung in his direction.
"Children", snorted Bill Sheperd.
Of course everyone was a kid to Bill. He had cowboyed fifty-five of his seventy years and had often stated that he considered anyone under the age of fifty was a child in the ways of real cowboying. Bill carried his age well and was highly respected as a top hand by those who knew him. Red was often the subject of Bill's strange sense of humor because at forty-one years of age Red considered himself an old hand and Bill didn't agree.
Bill and I leaned against the corral fence with our arms resting on the top board watching as Victor took to the saddle. The roan for all of his orneriness was not all that much of a bucker and Victor was handling him well.
I heard a vehicle rattling down the ranch road and turned to see a faded red four door Cadillac heading toward the pens. It was a well-used car about nine or ten years old, probably a forty-nine or a fifty model and covered with dust.
The driver turned the vehicle off the beaten path drove to the right side of Victor's pickup and stopped within twenty feet of where Bill and I were standing.
The dashboard of the car was cluttered with various papers and a couple of old western magazines that were weighted down with a brown, aged, worn, and dog-eared Gideon Bible, to keep them from blowing out the open windows. Clothes hanging from a wire stretched from above the top of one rear window to the other and several boxes of clothes and other items filled the back seat to near full capacity. There was a worn saddle lying on top of the boxes.
What seemed to be receipts, notes, and other small scraps of paper were clipped with two wooden clothes pins to the lowered sun visor, which hung down blocking the view of the driver's face. A single rusty spur hung from the rear view mirror by a worn leather strap. It seemed that everything the driver owned might have been piled into that old car.
On the passenger side of the front seat sat a large black dog with his head stuck through the open window.
A stuck door hinge popped as the driver opened the door and struggled to exit the car.
Stomping his right foot to revive the circulation in his leg the driver took a few moments to straighten to his full height.
He looked to be somewhere near his midyears, a little heavy in the middle, and his weathered face reflected a hard life. He was medium in height and build, dressed in khaki pants and shirt and wore a pair of Wellington style flat heel boots. His hat was a worn, small brim Stetson probably as old as his car.
As he walked toward Bill and I, we saw his freshly shaven face with a large bushy moustache and a white untanned line along his recently cut hairline. A graying tuff of brown hair hung across the left side of his forehead from beneath his tilted back hat. He looked like a worn down old feed salesman or contract horse and mule buyer. There was a bow to his legs and he walked with a slight limp.
When he stepped within speaking distance, the smell of Red Rose Toilet Water from the local barbershop reached our nostrils.
"I heard tell in town that you have an ol' horse that can't be rode," he said.
"Yes sir, that would be Bowdeezer," I replied.
He gave a small sheepish grin and looked straight into my eyes, "I would like to give it a go if could."
I noticed his eyes as he spoke. They were dark brown with sadness showing in the corners, yet there was a hint, a twinkle of better times trying to shine through.
"You're welcome to at your own risk," I stated.
"Thanks," he said.
I turned and whistled to get Red 's attention. "Bring in Bowdeezer and throw a saddle on him," I yelled.
Red turned and looked in our direction, smiling at the thought of someone trying to ride a bronc that even he couldn't ride.
Victor reined in the roan, stepped from the saddle and began loosening the cinch as Red opened the gate to the side pen.
The big gray had been casually watching the action in the large pen but had shown no signs of excitement until Red opened the gate. When Red swung the gate, Bowdeezer charged the opening, causing Red to side step behind the gatepost as the gray flashed by. Bowdeezer gave a high kick with his hind legs after clearing the gate and began to shake his head, buck and kick around the pen. He looked as if he we stretching his muscles and limbering up before the ride.
The stranger and I walked to the gate of the bucking pen, stood and watched while Bowdeezer appeared to be trying to physic out his latest victim.
The stranger unbuttoned his left shirt pocket and took out a pocket watch. He popped the cover and checked the time. It was then that I noticed the gold watch fob in the shape of a bucking horse and rider. The sculpted image was polished smooth on the high spots from wear and tarnished in the recesses.
"You're not from around these parts, are you?" I asked.
"No Sir," was his simple reply as he closed the cover on the watch, placed it back into his pocket and buttoned the flap.
He took a package of chewing tobacco from his right hip pocket and placed a chew in his left cheek. His face became solemn and intense as he replaced the tobacco package and began to watch every move the gray bucker made. It reminded me of a cougar watching the movements of a deer before the attack.
Red settled a loop over the gray's head and leaned back into the lasso. He worked his way to the snubbing post and began to draw Bowdeezer in. The horse made a show of a fight but I think he wanted the saddle on. He was ready for any rider, anytime.
While Victor and Red were getting the hackamore and saddle in place, the stranger stepped through the gate and walked a large circle around the pen. He looked at the horse from every angle. He stepped closer and made another circle. He then stepped near the left rear side of the gray and stood motionless.
Victor, Red and the gray were getting impatient but the stranger stood relaxed and looked the animal over again. He took up a notch in his old worn brown leather belt with an old style, rodeo belt buckle, pulled his hat down tight and spit a stream of tobacco.
The gray shook his head and stomped his left rear foot.
The stranger stepped close and jabbed his thumb into Bowdeezer's left flank.
Bowdeezer set his front legs and kicked his rear hooves head high.
His feet had not touched the ground solid before the stranger was in the saddle.
Victor and Red ran for the safety of the fence as horse and rider left the earth.
What happened for the next several minutes was a combination of a battle and a ballet.
The first buck was straight up and down and they landed with a thud. The second was sideways and to the right. The stranger seemed to anticipate every move and was in position before the next buck started. Bowdeezer sunfished and twisted into almost impossible positions but the rider was still on his back. He began to grunt and squeal as he bucked even harder, yet the rider stayed in the saddle.
The dust became thicker and looked like a low hanging cloud with it's top about fence high. When the pair hit the ground you could not see them for the dust. When each buck reached its apex it looked as if they were bucking through the top of the clouds. The late afternoon sun shown through an opening in the low hanging clouds behind the horse and rider casting an eerie orange glow around the dust cloud and their silhouettes. Charley Russell himself could not have painted a prettier picture.
Time had stopped. None of the spectators spoke or cheered for either horse or rider. It seemed as if the horse and rider were the center of the universe and the whole world stood still to watch the contest.
The bucking became weaker and finally stopped as the gray broke into a halfhearted run around the pen. He gave a couple of running bucks, kicking his hind legs high and then slowed to a walk. The stranger trotted him around the pens a couple of more times as the dust settled.
No one said a word. Red was rubbing his right hand. He had lighted a cigarette and forgotten about it while watching the show. He now had two half moon brands on the first two fingers of his right hand.
Bill Sheperd stepped through the gate and took the reins as the stranger dismounted. He extended his right hand and shook hands with the stranger. Neither spoke. Two old hands did not need the use of words.
The stranger removed his hat and ran his hand through thinning hair as he walked to the gate.
Victor, Red and I waited for him at the gate, taking turns shaking his hand and mumbling some sort of congratulations that none of use can remember.
The stranger placed his hat on his head, checked the time on his pocket watch and softly said, "Thanks".
He turned and walked toward his car. When almost to the car his right leg seemed to give away and he stumbled but kept his balance.
The black dog stood waiting for him at the drivers-side door. He had jumped out of the window during the excitement and marked both of the tires on the right side of Victor's truck.
The stranger pulled hard to open the popping door and the dog jumped into the car. As he sat in the car, closed the door and started the engine, I walked up close to the vehicle.
"What's your name?" I asked.
He placed the gearshift in reverse, looked over his right shoulder through the rear window, glanced down at the cracked left outside mirror and spit a stream of tobacco out of the window.
"Jake," he said.
He extended his hand and as we shook hands again I noticed the twinkle in his eyes was brighter and most of the sadness was gone. "I'm obliged to you," he said softly.
He backed the old Cadillac around to the right and turned toward the main road. Soon he was hidden behind the cloud of dust and blue smoke from the old oil burner.
As we watched the dust cloud disappear the first raindrops began to fall, sending up small puffs of dust as they fell to the ground.
Bill Sheperd looked at the darkening clouds overhead and spoke to himself more that anyone there, "Them two punched a hole in the clouds I reckon."
We gathered our gear and walked rapidly to the barn as the downpour began.
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