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Tim walked out to the 'office' that morn,
A saddle on his right hip.
He was going to ride the bronc,
That for two weeks had given him the slip.
The plan was to put him in the chute,
Then get the riggin' secure,
He'd nod for the gate, they'd let 'em out,
And that outlaw would have his cure.
Tim had been riding broncs
Since he was about fourteen,
Twenty three years of riding,
Had taken it's toll on him.
I wasn't sure that this was good,
I wanted to change the plan,
We could snub him, use hobbles, anything,
But it had come down to one horse, one man.
I rode to the arena,
Snubbed my mare to the rail,
And climbed up on the ropin' chute,
To watch the end of the tale.
The horse reared when they cinched him,
Tried to climb out the chute.
I said a prayer that they'd be all right,
When out the gate they flew.
The horse reared up,
Tim pulled the shank,
His hand held fast the riggin',
He spurred the horses's flank.
The arena shook when his fronts hit ground,
His back hooves threw up sand.
He bawled and snorted, turned and twisted,
Trying to shake the man.
Tim sat him like he was born there,
Rakin' him from nose to tail,
The ride was going pretty good,
When the bronc headed for the rail.
He'd stopped bucking,
Was at a dead run,
Tim's hand was caught in the rig,
He knew the horse had won.
The sound of flesh on metal,
Ran chills clean up my spine,
I watched the rail buckle,
Tim got thrown over the side.
Hand still in the riggin',
The horse drug him back again,
I don't think my feet touched ground,
When I ran out to save him.
Ken and Mike ran with me
The three of us built a wall,
Them up on their geldings,
Got that horse to stall.
We managed to cut the cinch loose,
Tim fell to the arena floor,
I knelt down and cried,
Tim would ride no more.
His eyes were soft and glassy,
It was a river that he saw,
But in his final moments,
He had sage words for us all.
"Unload that horse," he said,
"Don't none of you waste your hides,
He's worth 30 cents a pound,
Not worth any of your lives."
Then he went back to the river,
The Jordan he did cross,
The ambulance came screaming,
Not knowing he was already lost.
We had talked about it one time,
What if one of us should die?
He said, "Don't spend your tears on me, girl.
Just leave me where I lie."
"Spread my ashes over the Spanish Peaks,
So I can always see,
The place that we grew up in,
The beautiful San Luis Valley."
Cowboys give their lives,
In the sweat, the dust and the mud,
I knelt beside him on the arena floor,
In the sand and the tears and the blood.
I rode him up the Peaks one day,
Laid him to rest under the trees,
It was a good place for him,
But his heart still lives with me.
I'm going to throw a little perspective in here.
A lady bought this outlaw as her first horse from the BLM for $125. She couldn't get near him. He'd damn near killed her a couple of times.
Tim and I had a reputation for taking on these kinds of horses. Tim would take the buck out, and I'd put a finish on them. Our price for this service in 1997 was $1000 for every 30 days they spent with us, plus keep.
The horse sold to the slaughter house in North Platte, Nebraska three weeks later for 30 cents a pound. He weighed about 1100 pounds. That comes to $330.
The lady had $1200 in the horse, she got $330 of that back. Essentially, Tim sold out for $900.
Shortly after that, I packed everything I owned and moved to Wyoming. I've only been back to the Valley once since to pick up some horses for a trader.
September, 1997
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