Ramon

Cartero becomes … Carter

Ramon

Real Hands

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

            Cliff and I didn’t have the best seats.

            We were in the back watching Monte Roberts run a horse in circles. At one point, he asked for quiet. He suggested that nobody clap or talk without his consent. The horse continued to run in circles. He was really getting trained.

            At one point, Mr. Roberts stopped, and, with hands on his hips, he turned to the nearby crowd and told somebody he would continue when their conversation ceased.

            I winced hoping it wasn’t who I suspected.

            After the theatrics, there was a long line of folks waiting to get back into the big tent to buy his book and have him sign it. The line was going nowhere and my interest in buying his book just didn’t equate to the desire to get home. The problem was our youngest daughter was somewhere in the line ahead with her gaggle of horse gals intent on getting their signed copies. We finally pushed through only to discover why the line was held up. There, at the signing desk, sat the same young lady that had caused the pause in the program. She was talking and laughing with Monte who had to find some humor in the conversation by the smile on his face. Surrounding them watching the proceedings and offering their own input were the rest of her Kingsburg posse.

            “Steve, that is your daughter with Selene and Vicki,” Cliff said. “They must be schooling Monte on his techniques!”

            Real Hands

            In the annals of time and region, a special group of individuals has long been a point of discussion. These are not just the horsemen but the horse trainers. The majority never reach the level of fame as witnessed by the rise of the so-called natural horsemen of the last 30 years with their traveling “how to” shows and book promotions, but they were there as long as horses have been ridden.

            In yesteryear Grant County, there were numbers of good horsemen, but several emerged as real trainers. Clarky Pitts, Big Boy Crumbley, and Otho Woodrow were three. Those fellows weren’t occasional riders. They made their living horseback. Their lives were so intertwined with horses there was no separation.

            My dad talks about Clarky with reverence.

            “He constantly had his hands on those young horses,” he remembers. “They’d be working cattle over in Wild Horse or somewhere and there’d be Clarky devoting as much attention to the horse as he was the cow work.”

            “He made really good horses.”

            Big Boy came out of Texas in a hurry. Legend had it he was on his way to the hoosegow when he made his getaway. His hands were tied behind his back, but he cued his horse with his heels and left the posse in his wake. Arriving in New Mexico looking for work, his partner served notice they could ride anything with hair on it. Big Boy said it was the hardest year he ever spent with horses being offered up from all over. Always trying to not let them buck, though, his hands were constantly on those horses.

            “He really made good horses.”

            Otho was not just a horseman but a superb arena cowboy. There is a story about him as a young teenager at the Silver City Fourth of July rodeo when a bull jumped out of the arena and was intent on mixing it up with the crowd. It wasn’t the pickup men, it wasn’t the stock contractor and it wasn’t any one of the other good ropers there that saved the day. It was that kid sitting horseback watching the proceedings who never hesitated and had a rope on the bull and controlled him until he got enough help to put things in order.

            “There were lots of guys who claimed to be making good horses, but, Otho Woodrow always had good horses,” George Brown would say years later.

 He had those hands, too.

            Perhaps it is time to suggest the phrasing he’s a good hand had as much to do with the almost magical, actual touch of those gifted and patient hands universally shown by natural horse trainers. There is certainly implication, but to witness it and understand what is being seen is … undeniable.

            Ramon

            We have two Ramon Villanueva horses.

            Bailey, the chestnut mare who has developed ring bone which breaks our heart has been with us for years. She is not just athletic and courageous, she has never demonstrated anything but calm resolve. I’ll always remember her when it took three of us to deal with a bull that wouldn’t drive. We were abreast pushing on him when she had finally had enough. She backed her ears, displayed her teeth, and ran at him squealing and chomping down on his tailhead.

            He drove.

            The other horse came to us just recently. I had seen him when he was young, and he was everything that would be expected of a Ramon trained horse. His name was Cartero, mailman in Spanish, but he has become Carter. He’ll tend to want to work cattle faster than Bailey, but he has so many of the other, same attributes.

            These horses are quiet under rein. They will side pass on just a thought. They will sort in crowded allies, they will watch the cow you watch, they will load in any trailer on a suggestion, they will back out on command, and you can ride them with a halter and lead rope in a pinch.

            They are reflections of Ramon.

            From near Casas Grande, Chihuahua, Ramon Villanueva is one of the great horse trainers of our time. Widespread fame may not be his, but his abilities will long be remembered by those who know him. He is one of the best ranch ropers of all eras. He can fix anything, and his hand made bits are practical works of art.

            Diminutive in size and working on a little belly, he is immensely gifted in his craft. His personality and his wit are disarming. The other day when we had finished working and he loaded his newest project in one trailer and I had loaded Carter in another, we talked about the new horse.

            “I am going to buy that horse when you are ready, Ramon.”

            “Well, Esteve, why do you a’wanta a’wait?”

            I just smiled and shook one of those great hands.

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “I want to wait because I want Ramon’s hands on him another year.”