A Bell Ranch Cowboy

by Lee Pitts


I was once asked what was my favorite of the stories I’ve written. My answer surprised even me. It was an essay I wrote a long time ago in an attempt to prove I could write to an editor who couldn’t. I think all of three people read the story. “A Branding On The Bell’ is memorable to me, not because of the words I wrote, but because of the time I spent heel-squattin' around a fire, sleeping on the ground and branding calves with the cowboys on the Bell Ranch. Those two days and nights were about the best I’ve ever spent on this spinning orb of ours.

If you care at all about cows and cowboys then you’ve heard of the Bell Ranch. Once over a million acres, and still sizable, the Bell is named after a ding-dong-shaped mesa on the ranch. William Noble Lane was a Chicago industrialist who built a Fortune 1000 company and bought the Bell in 1969 because he thought that land represented true wealth. When he died in an automobile accident on the ranch he left the Bell in a trust insuring, he thought, that a Lane would own the ranch for at least 120 years.

My invite to the ranch came from a lanky, mustached cowboy who one would surmise, at first glance, was making day wages. In reality he was the immensely likable son of Bill Lane. Jeffrey could have had a high roller’s life back in Chicago but he chose instead to earn his spurs amongst the most critical crowd there is on earth: cowboys.

There’s never been any room for crybabies or sissies on the Bell, where it takes 42 acres to support a cow and a few beans and potatoes twice a day to support a cowboy. I had the opportunity to ride with 18 men, aged 13 to 72, on the Spring roundup, a tradition that has gone on uninterrupted on the Bell since the 1870’s.

Jeff picked out a gentle horse for me from the 120 head remuda and, although I’ve never felt comfortable riding another man’s saddle, riding with Jeff was pure joy. I’m sure we didn’t gather our share of pairs but when we said “adios” I knew I had a new friend for life. That’s why the news of Jeffrey’s death hit me like a ton of bricks.

Next to raising great kids with his wonderful wife Janet, Jeff liked best being a cowboy and flying his airplane. But the plane wasn’t just a toy. On a big spread like the Bell it can be the difference between life, or in Jeffrey’s case, death.

The thing I’ll always remember about Jeff is that he loved to wear a wild rag around his neck, a big hat on top of his head and tall boots with his pant legs stuck in them. I asked him once why the cowboys in these parts wore their boots like that and he told me it was to keep red ants out, or, so your legs wouldn’t chap after long hours in the saddle. But I think it’s also so the world will know you’re a special kind of creature: a New Mexico cowboy. And not just any cowboy but one who belonged to the Bell. For 130 years that’s been as good a resume as any hand could have.

Some high-priced lawyers broke the trust that Bill Lane set up and the Bell is up for sale. I guess you can’t blame the other members of the family but I felt bad for Jeffrey. At first he fought it and then he tried to keep a little piece of the ranch he loved, but when he realized it would be a deal-breaker he gave in for the good of the family.

I can’t picture Jeff living in a Chicago high-rise like some caged cat or leashed Border Collie. Jeff’s death is tragic and I feel for his family but I like to think Jeff was doing what he loved and had everything he ever wanted. Living a life most Americans think has vanished. Today I’m very sad but some tiny part of me is grateful that Jeff will never have to see someone else riding herd on the Bell. He’ll never have to leave the ranch he loved, looking back with a tear in his eye and a lump in his throat beneath his wild rag.

Jeffrey was a man who could’ve taken the easy way out in life but instead wanted to prove that he was a man worthy of the west. And prove it he did, for Jeffrey Lane belonged to that very special species known as a Bell Ranch cowboy.

The above article will appear in the September issue of The New Mexico Stockman.


The pre-apology plan
Cowgirl Sass And Savvy

By Julie Carter


Like most of the critters at the ranch, some cowboys are smarter than others. Tom happened to be one of the smarter ones.

He and Sue Ann worked together almost every day on a big ranch. He had figured out that at some point during the day the cattle, the horses or the hired help would do something that would require him to yell at Sue Ann.

I've mentioned before that a cowboy has this tendency to bark orders or a correction at his wife so that the people that need to hear it won't be offended but will still become informed.

Sue Ann's historical reaction to this tactic wasn't something Tom recalled with pleasantries. In view of the fact that most days she was the best help he had, he considered several options of minimizing the effect of his methods.

One morning at breakfast he decided to "pre-apologize" for any mistakes he might make during the day.

A pre-apology could and would cover almost everything, save time during the working day and enable him to be comfortable in his recliner at day's end while she fixed supper instead of using that time to soothe her at the saddle house.

What goes up must come down is not a solid physics theory when it comes to cattle, and especially yearlings.

Sometimes the mistake of parking a semi-truck of cattle to be unloaded pointed downhill makes for an exciting moment. Nothing short of a thunderbolt will stop the stampede before they get to the bottom.

Give those same cattle a hill or mountain to climb and they'll find the top and take up permanent residence without any intention of coming back down unless, first, it becomes their idea.

When it's their idea, especially if you get a bunch of them gathered up on the top of the hill and pointed downward, refer to the previous paragraph and thunderbolt theory.

On this particular day, Fall was approaching. Tom and Sue Ann had started moving the cattle from the high country to shipping pastures at lower elevations. The hired help had gathered up as day was breaking, slickers tied to the backs of their saddles for the inevitable afternoon showers.

Tom, Sue Ann and crew worked their way up the mountain trail to get above the cattle.

Yearlings can be pretty snakey in the brush. They have been known to sneak around behind the riders or even end up on the side of a cliff-like place where the only method to get them to move is the very un-cowboy method of throwing rocks at them.

That is one of those cowboy skills you don't hear talked about much.

When a sizeable bunch had been collected to a clearing, the hands started moving the cattle down a steep ridge top complete with plenty of rocks and deadfall. Sue Ann was riding point to the left of the front of the herd, charged with keeping them headed in the right direction.

As will happen, something that nobody but the cattle saw or heard, spooked them and the race was on. At a dead run downhill they raced but, of course, not in any direction they needed to be going.

Sue Ann jumped up in the front of her saddle and rode hell-bent-for- leather through the treacherous steep terrain trying to head the cattle. In a effort to not kill herself or her horse in the rescue, she did have to pull up in a few places and select a less lethal path through a natural gauntlet of dangers.

Finally, a little further down the hill than Tom had planned, everything came to a halt. Tom, already calculating the pounds and dollars that just ran off the cattle, simply couldn't help himself even when he knew better. He rode over to Sue Ann and asked her why she let the cattle run and why she didn't get them stopped sooner.

It was good thinking on his part that he had already pre-apologized.

See Julie’s Web site at julie-carter.com. Her book is on sale now!