When I was a kid I spent a lot of time herding cattle. It was a custom in those days. Most of the grass was fenced but some was not. My companions were a saddle horse and dog. It was a carefree time. A time to read and think. A time to tune with the things 'round about. Night herding was a thing of the past when I arrived on the scene. Dad grew up doing it. On those rare times when he talked of the old days, I listened with rapt attention. A cowboys life I understood. You must understand that the cattle were raised in a situation where they fended for themselves. They were alert and ever aware of danger. Most cattle would run rather than do battle. Thus any strange noise or odd looking thing could be the making of trouble. Riders - that is what they were called - held the herds on this vast and empty land. It was a sea of grass. I doubt if they thought of themselves as cowboys. Rather they were riders, loyal to the brand that paid their wages. They rode for the brand. Cattle were bedded for the night and would usually stay at the bedground as long as it was dark. During moonlight they would move. Storms were a problem for the night herder. When one struck the herd was on its feet and the night herders with no cattle savvy might lose them. Dad talked of seeing the lightening play on the cattle's horns at night. The night herder would sing. This was more than just something to pass away the time. The cattle knew the sound of a singing rider and it seemed to soothe the restless ones. It also warned the cattle of an approaching rider. You tried, never, never to surprise them, especially at night. If they ever started to run the thing to do was ride with the leaders, crowding them to one side. If this was successful, with a large herd you would finally end up with the cattle following each other and running in a circle. You might lose a few pounds of beef but when they finally quieted, they had really not moved very far from the bedground. They were milling in a circle. This is what the following ballad is all about. Oh yes is this ever happened the riders always hoped that there was unbroken prairie all around. Cliffs and holes spelled disaster.
Little Joe the wrangler, he'll never wrangle more His days with the remuda, they are o'er Twas a year ago last April, when he rode into our camp Just a little Texas stray and all alone Twas long late in the evening when he rode up to the herd On a little Texas pony he called Pal With his brogan shoes and overalls, a tougher looking kid You never on the range before had saw His saddle was a Texas Kak made many years ago And a canteen from his saddle horn was slung His bedroll in a cotton sack so loosely behind And an OK spur on one foot lightly swung He said he had to leave his home, His pa had married twice And his new ma whipped him every day or two So he saddled up old Pal one night, and hit a shuck this way And now he is trying to paddle his own canoe He said if we could give him work, he'd do the best he could Although he said he did not know straight up about a cow So the Boss he cut him out a mount, and kindly put him on For he sort of liked that little kid somehow.
Taught him how to wrangle horses and do the best he could To help the cook with chuck and rustle wood To follow the remuda and always hitch the team And get them in at daylight if he could Twas long late in the summer, we had worked into the breaks We had camped at a river in a bend When a norther started blowing, and we doubled up our guard We called out all the hands to hold them in Little Joe the wrangler was called out with the rest And the extra guard had scarcely reached the herd When the cattle all stampeded off into the night
memory fails me here
We were all a ridin' for the lead He was ridin' old blue Rocket, with a slicker o'er his head A tryin' to check them cattle in their speed. We finally got them milling, and sort of quieted down And the extra guard back to the camp did go. but one of them was missing and we saw it with a glance. Twas our little Texas stray, poor wrangler Joe. Next morning just at daybreak we saw where Rocket fell. In a little washout twenty feet below Crushed to pulp, his spurs had rung his Knell Twas our little Texas stray, poor wrangler Joe.
Dear kids:
Don't let the legends die And don't ever be afraid to dream.
I love you, Dad