Sunday, October 16, 2016
Baxter Black - Bull Rider’s Limp
Images of John Wayne, stoic and brave, filled the air. The dragon slayer uninjured saving the damsel. The concerned female dabbin’ peroxide in the bullet wound creasing your shoulder. “It’s nuthin’,” you’d say, wincing in pain. If only you had a saber slash across the cheek.
I remember when George and I went to the Bare Ranch for a week. We worked and sorted the cows. Checked the bulls and helped the crew finish up the fall work. On the last night George was injured in the line of duty. He wore a cast for weeks, explaining every time he was asked that he’d hurt himself working cows. When pressed for details he’d finally admit he’d broken his ankle when he fell off the cookhouse steps!
Jess’s injury was not as glamorous and harder to explain. It looked like he’d been snorting raspberries! His nose was the size and color of a ripe plum.
“Lissadig to hib xplane id, id wass hart to keeb a strate fase.”
He’d picked up a bale of hay to feed the heifers. With the practiced motion of experience he hefted the bale and dropped it over his upraised knee. But here the story takes a different twist. The baling wire broke! It struck like a snake, whipped around and bit his nose!
The end of the wire penetrated the meaty part of his proboscis on the left side, drilling through the nasal septum and exiting his right nostril! With a climatic flourish, it wound a dally around the other end of the wire!