The Lady and the Cowboy

Memories and Wind

The Lady and the Cowboy

Lordsburg

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

There isn’t much left but memories, and … the wind.

One memory was the time the prominent state judge’s son chained the police cruiser to the light standard while the officer sat inside drinking coffee. The boys went back down Railroad Avenue, lined up, and lit a fire under those old Chevies to race past the café.

In the hearing that followed, there was mention of the simple premise of making sure there was no shirking of the duty by the law in this home town. There was no humor left in the judge himself or the municipal court judge who slammed the gavel and threatened Springer on any next escapade of similar delinquency.

That guilty young man went on to become one of the grand teachers. He could deal with the toughest of kids.

Then, there was the day the young rancher was coming home with a load of somebody else’s runaway cows he’d purchased at the auction at Willcox. He was stocking his outfit and was sourcing brangus matrons anywhere he could find them. He figured that one old Diamond A gem would be good for a calf or two as he built his herd. A little high headedness would only assure he wouldn’t have to use heel dogs on the rocky and brushy north facing cliffs of which he was the proud new owner.

Getting the cows loaded likely provided a glimpse of things to come, but they succeeded in keeping that one cow from jumping out of the alley by lining cowboys and lookers alike along the fences. Sonny had assured him she was a sure enough keeper and she’d settle down as soon as he got on the road.

Yes, sir … everything was going to be just dandy.

He aimed ol’ Ford toward Lordsburg and headed for home. He rolled the window down and rested his arm on the door as he drove one handed. He’d worn his brand new straw hat, and tipped it back just a bit as he nodded and offered dignified acknowledgement to anybody who gave his rig a second look.

He was a man of means. He was coming of age.

When he rolled off the freeway onto Railroad Avenue he thought he was in need of a cup of coffee and a slice of pie so he double clutched ol’ Ford and brought the rig to a halt. He stepped out lightly, and immediately was wary. That Diamond A sweetheart was watching him with her best “I am going to kill you” look, and, in the next hair’s breathe, she jumped straight up like she had been shot from a cannon.

Our rancher described the enveloping calamity from that point.

“I swear she jumped eight feet straight up,” he described getting pale all over again. “Her angle of ascent landed her on her side on the top rail of the street side of the (open topped) trailer.”

“Watching me without blinking, she proceeded to try to kick herself from that position out of the trailer onto the street,” he continued.

“For one brief terrified moment, I looked up and down the street and all I could think about was how I was going to get her gathered with no cross fences between Florida and California!”

“All I could do was get up there with her and beat her back into the trailer,” the rancher concluded. “I wore that new hat out on her, and, pushing on her, she finally fell back into the trailer.”

Asked if he went ahead and got his coffee he said “Absolutely not!”

He ran to the Ford, got her cranked, and, in compound, started down the street popping the clutch to keep that sweet thing off balance and out of shape to jump again. He drove all the way home to the Mangus with hands glued to the steering wheel, his hat pulled down, and doing everything possible to keep that cow from jumping again. When he got home, he drove out into the middle of the pasture before he unloaded. He swung the gate open and climbed the trailer to get out of her way. She jumped out with the rest, whirled, pawed the ground and blew snot at him, and … trotted away.

As for his new hat … it wasn’t.

The Lady and the Cowboy

In 1941, another young cowboy came trotting up to a young lady’s house on the far northern horizon from downtown Lordsburg and its Railroad Avenue. Encountering a young cowboy wasn’t unusual. All that country was alive with similar, young men. It was cow country and its chivalry had not changed. In many ways, it was the best of times.

As usual, she had a pie baked. She offered him a slice and he accepted. As he ate, they had talked …hesitatingly.

He pulled his cinch and went back to work, but that evening he loped back by. He sure did like her pie and he wanted to check it to make sure it was good as he remembered. From that day, he would regularly find reason to check to make sure she was perfecting the craft of baking pies.

Charlie would marry Ruth.

They settled on the home place right on the bank of the Gila River and it would be home to them and their family for over 50 years before Charlie died in 1999. There was a pause in 1944 when Charlie went off to war in the Pacific. With his departure, Ruth jumped in and filled her husband’s role as cowboy with her father-in-law. That family patriarch would say she became the best cowboy with whom he ever worked.

The family was hugely relieved when Charlie came home.

The words of Ruth’s eulogy described how they built their home at the end of the road one room at a time. One addition even became a museum. It contains artifacts, pictures, old firearms, hand crafted tack, bits and spurs, and pieces of ranch life.

To those who don’t understand, that life might seem a dreary, lonely existence. To those who do understand, it was immensely rich. To work willingly together every day of married life against a backdrop of big wide open, is a precious and rare thing.

Alzheimer’s took Ruth, but she longed to be with Charlie since the day they buried him at Mountain View Cemetery in Lordsburg fifteen years ago.

The Service

The town is a skeleton of what it once was. Created at the convergence and intersection of trails, it became, variously, a stage stop, a railroad town, a shipping center, and a community of local commerce. Mines, cattle, the railroad, and the business of keeping the social fabric sewn together kept it afloat. Slow atrophy came with the steady diminishment of each component. Only the wind now remains in robust lockstep with its history.

The Baptist Church sits on the corner at Animas and 3^rd.  The attendance record on the hymnal placard for the previous Sunday was pegged at 14, but the sanctuary would be filled to capacity when the first words were offered over that beautiful pine box. Starched white shirts prevailed and hats were hung in the narthex until there were no hooks left.

The resident pastor stood and welcomed the gathering with an appropriate hint of humor and the first prayer. As that concluded, all eyes shifted left as the last of the gathering faithful came through the fellowship portal in a lathered arrival. The young ranch family had finished their chores and drove the 40 miles to arrive nearly intact. Bringing up the rear, the first little sister was still barefooted, but she was carrying her shoes and responding to greetings left and right with her big blue eyes.

The local banker read the eulogy. He remembered meeting Ruth at the Post Office in Redrock when they were both young. He described how she was a wonderful example for all and such a true lady. When she came to town, she made sure she always looked the part as well.

The first of three tunes was played on the lone fiddle, and the wind blew outside.

The family’s pastor from Duncan provided the message. He had been asked to be brief and he was. His words offered a balance of gospel and encouragement. The horror of Alzheimer’s had been shed and the promised joy was to ‘cometh’ that morning.

Competing with the wind for volume, crafted and parting words were again offered at the graveside. A fourth tune was played on the fiddle and Ruth was laid beside Charlie.

Fighting through that last barrier, the family would begin healing in earnest. The circle was, indeed … completed.

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Uncle Hap (McCauley) always fretted over funerals coming in sets of three. Like it or not, another may find its way into the schedule.”