The thunderstorm
was pushing through Palo Pinto Canyon, and while the rain hadn't hit the ranch
yet, it was only a matter of time.
Already, the lightning flashes and the rolling thunder were almost
constant. After so many years of drought,
it seemed like all the prayers for rain were about to be answered at the same
time.
"Damn
it," Mike said. The old cowboy was
worried about getting all the horses back from the pasture and safely into the
barn before the storm hit. "Damn
fool horses have scattered as far apart as they can get."
"I don't
know anything about rounding up horses," said his wife, Barbara. "But I can tell you how to get a hundred
cows into a barn."
"How the
hell do you do that?" asked Mike.
This was a strange statement from his wife, as one of the reasons he had
married her was that she knew almost nothing about ranching--he had been ready
for something different.
Keeping her eyes
on the dirt trail as she drove the pickup, Barbara answered, "Easy! Just hang a sign on the barn that says 'BINGO'."
The old cowboy
couldn't help but smile. When Matt, his
son, had asked him why he had remarried a woman half his age, he had replied,
"At my age, boy, I prefer the smell of perfume to that of liniment." While this had satisfied his son, the real
reason the cowboy had married the fiery redhead was simply that he was pretty
sure the beauty was smarter than him.
The rain was
just starting as he got the last of the three horses safely into their stalls
in the barn. Perhaps the drought had
influenced his judgment, but the heavy rain sounded like music on the tin roof
of the barn to him. That music almost,
but not quite, drowned out the sound of his cell phone.
"Damn,"
Mike muttered as he dug the phone out of his pocket. He really hated the damn phone, but it was the
second one his wife had bought him in the last three months. He was pretty sure she wouldn't believe
another story about one's accidental death.
Looking at the display, he saw the call was from Kent, his neighboring
rancher and close friend.
"Mike,"
Kent said. "I just talked to Cathy
over in Santo. Lightning just killed her
mare and its colt. She's pretty upset,
and wants to know if we could help bury the horses. She sounds almost hysterical."
"Aw, that's
terrible. I know how much she loved that
horse. Of course, I'll help. If the rain lets up, we could do it first
thing in the morning."
"Uh..well,
she was screaming into the phone," Kent said.
Mike stood still
in the barn, his eyes shut. Cathy was
one of those people who didn't just like horses, she loved
them. She lived in a little community of
what the locals called horse nuts--people who had moved farther out from
the city in order to own a dozen acres or so, in order to indulge their hobby
horses. Mike rode horses, he used them,
he respected them--but he did not trust them and he damn sure didn't love
them. In general, he considered them
reliable four-wheel drive vehicles that--in an emergency--you could eat. As often as accidents took horses, Mike was
amazed that no one yet had started marketing a line of Horsey-Helper.
Even though he
already knew the answer, Mike asked the question, "What did you tell
her?"
"I told her
that we would bring your backhoe over tonight and bury the horses," Kent
said.
"That Case
isn't street legal and the trailer is in the shop getting a new axle."
"I'll come
over and drive my pickup ahead of you with the flashers on," Kent
answered. "We'll go slow."
It was a very
long drive into town. The backhoe wasn't
designed to drive the ten miles into town, and between the big shovel on the
front end and the backhoe behind, every time the vehicle got over about ten
miles an hour, the heavy machine would begin rocking back and forth on the
twisting road coming down off of Chesnut Mountain to the small town of Santo,
built along the Brazos River. It took
over an hour to drive the dozen miles through the town to the two dozen homes
of the small community where Cathy lived, and most of the way, Mike thought the
backend of the Case was trying to pass itself on the curves.
Kent got out of
his truck and opened the gate into the corral as Mike drove the backhoe over
to where the two dead horses lay, the
smaller one just a dozen feet from the larger body of the mare. In the frequent lightning flashes, Mike could
see that surrounding the horses were a dozen or so raincoat-clad people from
the community, standing reverently in the steady downpour. These were the horse nuts, collectively they
couldn't tell dung from wild honey.
While Kent went
into the house to confer with Cathy, Mike sat in the Case's cab, wondering just
how he had got involved in all this stupidity.
As far as he could tell, he was sitting in the largest hunk of metal in
the area, with the tall arm of the backhoe stuck straight into the air--like a
lightning rod--in the middle of an electrical storm. Contrary to popular opinion, lightning did
strike twice--or more--in the same area.
Whatever the conditions were that made lightning strike at this point,
they were now improved by the addition of several tons of steel.
Shortly, Kent
walked back to the backhoe. "She
wants them buried here in the corral," he said.
Not bothering to
reply, Mike started to use the backhoe to dig the hole. He would need a hole about eight feet deep
and just as wide to bury the two horses.
Even in the soft sand of the corral, this would likely take hours.
As Mike worked
the backhoe, moving the dirt to the side of the hole, it seemed the rain was
working equally hard to refill the hole with water. The small community of mourners stood around
the impromptu grave, shining their flashlights into the hole. Mike's mind really wasn't on the work--he
kept thinking, "Well, I guess the only way you make this backhoe a better
lightning rod would be to bury the bucket deep into the muddy ground. Like, I'm doing now."
After what
seemed like an eternity in the rain and lightning, one of the mourners walked
over to the cab and shouted up at Mike, "See if you can put the two horses
into the grave gently, and we can ask Cathy to come out while we say a
few words before you cover them up."
"Right,"
Mike thought. "And if we stand
close enough to the hole, when the lightning strikes, we can all just fall
in."
Feeling a little
guilty at what he was thinking, Mike tried to change the subject by innocently
asking, "What was the mare's name?"
"Lucky,"
the man replied.
Mike didn't even
bother to reply, but thought to himself, "If the colt was named Lightning,
this would just about be perfect."
Finally, the
hole was finished, though there was at least a foot of water in the
bottom. Mike thought hard about how to
put the horse into the hole. Neither the
large bucket of the front end loader or the backhoe's bucket was exactly
designed to do delicate work The result
of using either could not exactly be called "gently."
Mike tried to
slide the bucket of the front end loader under the mare, but succeeded only in
shoving the horse along the soft mud.
Finally, in desperation, he moved back several yards and moving forward
rapidly, scooped up the mare in the bucket.
Raising the bucket several feet, he moved the Case over to the hole and
pulled the lever that allowed the bucket to drop its load.
The mare
executed almost three quarters of a complete revolution, landing with a great
splash on its legs--at least for the briefest of seconds before the horse
collapsed into the mud and water, its legs splaying out to the sides or folding
up alongside the horse. The effect, was
horrible and even over the roar of the engine, Mike could hear the collective
gasp of the mourners.
Before the
mourners could voice any criticism, Mike roared off with the Case and repeated
the procedure with the colt. Perhaps the
bucket was raised higher, or maybe it was because the younger horse weighed
less than its parent, but the colt did a complete revolution and landed in the
pit on its back--legs in the air--directly beside the other horse.
Mike couldn't
help himself, he started giggling. The
flashlights of the mourners didn't reveal the contents of the bottom of the
pit, but the periodic lightning flashes certainly did. The two horses, with their legs pointing in
opposite directions, were ghastly to look at.
"That looks
good," Mike yelled to the mourners,
"Bring her out!" Mike
was on the edge of hysteria--he knew that if he started laughing, he wouldn't
be able to stop.
Two hours later,
Mike was back at home. Cathy had not,
after all, come to view the horses in the grave. Mike had simply pushed the accumulated muddy
dirt back into the hole and followed Kent's truck back to his house.
"So, how
did it go? asked Barbara as she met him at the door."
"Oh, not
bad," answered Mike. "Not
everyday you get to do a burial at sea."
Great story. Had a couple of horses die on me when I was an equestrian therapist. We got old gentle donated horses, so they didn't last long. A friend buried one with a backhoe that way. It wasn't graceful, but it was an effective way to bury the dead. I almost got away with having the guy that does that sort of thing come and get Smokey. Then some asshole on our staff at the mental facility decided to tell the kids what the knackerman was going to do with Smokey's body and I had to go back to burying our retiring horses and I was not allowed to use glue in the children's presence for over a year before the memory faded. Of course, the biggest problem was that I got attached to my horses. Never was able to see livestock as food and transportation. I like being a vegetarian. It's free of guilt for the most part.
ReplyDeleteYour stories are easy reading, enjoyable, laced with bits of obscure knowledge. Horses hit by lightening usually have their feet blown off, by the way, due to their hooves having been the point of contact with the ground. Probably more country wisdom than you needed but true. By the way, I would have done just as in the story if a neighbor called in the middle of the night. People in grief aren't rational and it's usually better to placate than judge, as we can all be crazy at times.
ReplyDeleteAs most of the story is a retelling of an actual event, I have to agree with you. They called, I went, and I was there. As for lightning blowing the feet off of livestock, I have heard this, but these two (and yes, the mare was named Lucky) didn't have a mark on them. Nor did the Arabian my wife lost to lightning a few years later.
DeleteLightning is weird. Years ago, a Cessna I was flying got hit. The noise and bright flash was incredible. For a few seconds, I wondered if the plane was still intact as I blinked and tried to get my eyes to focus. Eventually, even though most of what I could see was just a bright orange ball, I realized the plane was fine. I hadn't lost the radio, no circuit breakers were popped, and amazingly, both wings and the tail were still there. I won't go into the condition of my seat.
After I landed, a close inspection found the point of impact. There was a quarter inch round burnt spot with a pin prick black hole through the tail. I never found the exit point. I guess I was just a lot luckier than a mare I know.
I can't seem to figure out how to make comments...Trying again so if you get two you will know why. A few weeks ago Karen introduced me to your blog, and I love it! I was a little unsure about this story, but reading the comments helped a lot. I do have two questions: Was there a special reason that certain words were highlighted, and do cows/horses really go into a barn which has a sign with BINGO on it? I am not a city girl, but I didn't grow up around USA ranches.
ReplyDeleteThank you. As to the highlighted words, that is as close as print will allow me to write with a Texas accent. You will have to imagine the rest. As to the Bingo, you weren't the only one who didn't quite grasp the meaning. Let's just say that technique only works with two-legged heifers.
ReplyDeleteGiggle...thank you for explaining it for me!
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