Wardle Stuebner’s Tale of a Cattle Drive
written by: David L Painter
My name is Wardle Stuebner, and I’m a ranch hand, been one for nearly all my life, or at least as far back as I can remember. This here’s my tale of a cattle drive and the goings-on beforehand, back in the spring of 1869.
The old bunkhouse at the Bar-T Ranch was crowded that night, thick with cigarette smoke and half-drunk cowboys. We was packed in tight, laughing and carrying on when Ellis Duckworth, the ranch foreman, raised his voice above the ruckus.
“Come on, boys, just one more drink before we call it a night! We got us some hard riding tomorrow, and this here’ll make it a hell of a lot more tolerable.” He held up a bottle, pulled the cork, took a swig, and passed the amber liquid around.
Ellis was talking about the cattle drive some three hundred miles up the Chisholm Trail to the railroad in Ellsworth, Kansas. Sixty days, give or take, of blistering heat by day and cold nights. We’d be crossing some of the most unforgiving land in Texas, full of savage Indians, cattle rustlers, rivers and creeks, and miles upon miles of nothing but dust and prairie. And to say nothing of the stink of cow shit. There’s plenty of that to go around.
A man had to be a special breed to endure that kind of punishment and come out the other side standing up and in one piece.
This was the last night we’d been drinking for a while. We was working on our third or fourth bottle. The liquor was flowing freely, and the mood was high when Charlie, one of the younger hands piped up.
“Hell yes, give me another shot of that rot gut!” he hollered, snatching the bottle from Pete Duckworth and taking a long pull. “If I get drunk enough I’ll head out tonight and leave you son-of-bitches here to play nursemaid to them milk cows!”
A roar of laughter erupted around the room.
“Go on, let him drink, and let him go!” said Smithy, a short burly fellow.
“Don’t pay him no mind; he’s half-drunk already,” someone called from the back.
“Hell boys, he’s so young, he should still be on his momma’s knee!” Jim Travis added, spitting a wad of tobacco onto the floor.
Now, most men would’ve laughed that kind of funning off, but Charlie want like most men. He shoved his chair back so hard it toppled over as he stood up, all six-foot-three of him. He was swaying a little in his drunken state. His tan hands gripping the table so tightly his knuckles turned white. Taking another swig from the bottle, he glared around the room like he could take on every one of us.
“I can outshoot, outdrink, and outride any of you sons-of-bitches!” he boasted; his voice slurring but his intent clear.
The bunkhouse damn near came down with laughter, but before things got out of hand Ellis spoke up.
“Now, Charlie, you’re good I’ll give you that but you’re drunk and need to sleep it off. I’ll tell you what, you never could ride that big roan horse out in Mr. Taylor’s corral. Ain’t nobody can and that’s a fact. So calm yourself down.”
We all knew Ellis was just funning him, and I reckon he was just trying to bring him down a peg or two, but in Charlie’s drunken state, it was the worst thing he could’ve said. Even Mr. Taylor, the ranch owner, tried to reason with him.
“Best leave that horse alone Charlie,” Taylor said. “He’s a mean one. We’ll break him after we get back from Ellsworth. Now, we’ve got cattle to drive so let’s all call this a night and get some sleep.”
What goes on in a man’s mind we ain’t got no way of knowing or even what their fixin’ to do. Because Charlie wasn’t hearing none of it. Before we knew it, he’d pushed his way out the door and staggered to the corral. He threw a saddle on that walking volcano of a horse, swung a muscular leg over, and sat in the saddle, swaying like a man possessed.
Well, sir, that horse commenced to bucking as soon as it felt Charlie’s weight. After four or five bone jarring leaps, Charlie went flying, arms and legs flailing like one of them rag dolls. He hit the ground hard, fast, and face-first into a plume of Texas dust.
Now, Texas dust is something else, it’s deep, dry, and about as fine as flour. When Charlie hit, it exploded in all directions, rising up like a living thing before settling back down over everything and everyone. When the air cleared a bit, we rushed over. Charlie was out cold lying in the dirt.
We figured it might’ve been the fall or the fact that he was dead drunk that saved his damned fool life. Either way, Ellis had us load him into the back of the chuck wagon, figuring that was the safest place for him until he came to.
We’d gone a good distance up the trail and it was getting along towards evening before Charlie finally woke up, looking like warmed over death. He poked his head out, eyes bloodshot and groaning like a sick calf. I was riding drag when I saw him. It sure didn’t look like we was in any shape to eat any of the cookies vittles. But I’ll tell you one thing, if he hadn’t been Mr. Taylor’s son we probably would’ve left him in the bunkhouse to sleep it off and catch up later.
The drive took the better part of sixty days, just like we figured. We pushed over a thousand head of cattle through some of the roughest country you can imagine. By the time we made it to Ellsworth, we was plumb worn out, smelling like hell, and ready for trouble, which of course we found. It seemed like some of them good folks as well as the town’s sheriff, don’t cotton to us rowdy trail hands busting up a saloon and getting in fights and such. But that’s another story for another time.
And in case you’re still wondering; The answer to your question is “No,” Charlie never did break that roan horse.
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