Rope Tricks and Water Troughs

The old K-R wasn’t a big-time setup, just a scrappy outfit. Every Friday night, I’d drag 19-year-old Slim along to round up the cows out of the pasture and crowd ’em into the little quarter-acre square we used for a catch pen.

We’d camp out overnight because some Saturdays at daylight, we had twenty head of horses to catch and haul two miles down to the “stables.” That fancy word didn’t mean much in our case; we ran the whole deal off the tailgate, horses tied to ropes strung between trees.

We’d have to check on ’em throughout the night—another reason we camped there all weekend. Slim’s ma thought me stickin’ around was a good influence, figured I’d keep him in line.

Trouble was, I liked a good drink now and then, and there was a saloon a couple of miles down the way. So, after setting things straight with the horses on Saturday night, we’d mosey on over there, unbeknownst to Slim’s ma.

We’d be back to check on the horses by three in the morning. I kept myself mostly sober, but Slim was a different case. He managed to rustle up a fake ID and took it as a personal challenge not to leave a drop in any bottle he got his hands on.

To stay awake on the way back, I’d stop by a water trough halfway home, and dunk my head in that cold spring water to shake off the drowsiness. Slim usually woke up when I did this, but one night he was too far gone.

He didn’t stir until we reached the gate. Groggy, he sat up, scratched his head, and asked, “Are we at the water trough yet?”

Some horses were in a mood and hard to catch one Saturday morning, so we had to rope a few from horseback. That night, I let my youth and dumbness get the better of me.

Walking out to catch one of the more dependable horses, a pony zipped past. On impulse, I tossed out a Hoolihan, hit the ground as the rope went tight, and got dragged a good way before the pony finally stopped.

Slim thought this looked like grand fun. So when a full-sized horse ran by, he threw a loop, but his technique didn’t match mine. He pitched a nice loop around the horse’s neck and let out the extra coils just right—but forgot to drop to the ground.

That horse hit the end of the line, and Slim went airborne like a cannon shot, legs pinwheeling like a busted windmill, arms straight up like a high diver. He held on for dear life until the last second, then let go, but not before he managed a one-point landing that jammed his hat clean down over his eyes.

Watching him spin through the air, arms flailing like a windmill caught in a tornado, I couldn’t help but laugh fit to bust.

Then, he peeled his hat off, looked at his shoulder, and deadpanned, “Ya know what? I think I broke my shoulder. Ya know what else? I think I’m gonna pass out,” which he did, face-first into the dirt.

Finally got him in the truck and drove into town. At the ER I called his ma and told her what had happened.

Slim grinned at me when she walked in, “Are we at the water trough yet?”

To this day–his ma doesn’t know a lick about what he was yapping, thinking it was the pain medicine talking.