When Jane Kramer was searching for and learning about “The Last Cowboy” in the northern panhandle of Texas in 1977, she visited with many residents of that area. Countless incidents where described in detail and she heard many stories which revealed the values, culture, attitude, and life of those cowboys who were being interviewed.
Henry, the gentleman who Jane had earlier identified as “The Last Cowboy” tried to cover the Willow Ranch in the northern panhandle of Texas every week in his pickup. If he and his truck were far off in the distance, everyone in the area who saw him coming recognized that truck and they all knew the driver.
There were sixty-seven windmills on the 93,000 acres, and it was up to Henry to keep those windmills working. He loved those windmills as much as he did his cattle. He appreciated seeing their blades whirring in a good breeze, and fresh, cold water pouring into the stock tank nearby. He was proud of his skill with windmills. It was a skill which he had taught himself. In most cases he was able to just lean his ear against the structure and determine what needed to be done to correct the problem.
During each daily trip, he always found situations which required his immediate attention. This was done by himself with no one to help or give advice and encouragement.
Before you saw his pickup approaching, you could always hear it coming. Inside the cab, the floor was covered with countless tools, and some items which were unidentifiable. In the back, the bottom of the box was not visible because of all the posts, wire, tools, and buckets containing “stuff” which could not be described or recognized.
Out on the vast prairie of the Great Plains today, there are many pickups just like the one Henry drove in 1977 in north Texas. Some of you know where those vehicles are and who the owner is. Some of you may own one of those pickups. We should all thank God that “character” is the same today as it was forty-five years ago! How dull it would be if everything was the same.
One day Jane was with a group of old-time cowboys who were discussing what a cowpuncher was. “You know what a cowpuncher is,” one elderly gentleman asked. “It’s when you can ride all day long, like old Will, and never say ‘Grandad, I’m thirsty, I want a glass of water, Grandad. I’m hungry.’”
“I’ll tell you what a cowpuncher is,” Henry cut in. “It ain’t roping and it ain’t riding bronc and it ain’t being smart, neither. It’s thinking enough about a dumb animal to go out in the rain or snow and try to save that cow. Not for the guy that owns the cow but for the poor old cow and her calf. It’s getting down in that bog — in quicksand, if you got the guts. You tie up one leg, then the other. You tramp her out. You get her laying on her side and then you get your horse and you drag that old cow out of the quicksand.”
“You see, this old cow, she don’t know but what you’re trying to kill her. But you drag her out, even if she’s fighting you, and then you ride a mile yonder and find another cow bogged down the same way.” All the old-timers nodded while tears ran down the bony cheeks of several of the elderly gentlemen.
Earlier, some government specialists had told Henry that his individual pastures were too large. They told him that he had to have smaller pastures so that he could look after his cattle better and feed them better. He did not agree. He argued that if you give a mother cow plenty of room, she would go her own way with the calf following.
He believed that if the pasture was large enough, it might rain on one part and not the other, and those old cows would just move with the weather and good grazing in their own time. He believed that you didn’t have to go gathering them whenever there’s a little problem. He said: “You can let them alone and gather twice a year — which sure is enough gathering, if you ask them cows.”
Henry had been taught by his grandfather that a cowboy was always gentle, that the best way and the most appropriate way to ride a horse or rope a calf was the quietest way possible. He suggested what made a real cowboy was not so much knowing how to do something as knowing when to do something. He said: “The most important ‘when’ being when to leave an animal alone.”
One evening after supper, Henry told his wife that it might be nice to take their iced tea out behind the old weathered barn and watch the sunset. He never said it; however, he was aware that it was very lonely for his wife out on the ranch. She had once told their pastor, “Reverend, I’m tired of grieving when no one’s died.”
The American cowboy was an original. When he arrived on the western frontier, he carried no baggage. Just like the frontier, he had no past and no history. He was an American original. The cowboy shook hands. His handshake was a contract. Ordinary men signed legal contracts. During the days of the long trail drives from southern Texas to the Great Plains and Canada, he could make a four-month cattle drive across a thousand miles or more and not be missed by anyone.
The wife of one cowboy with small children told Jane that their ranch, thirty miles from the nearest town, took care of everything they needed except for a decent income.
Author Clarence Shoemaker, originally published in the Gregory Times-Advocate on May 25, 2022