Seems there’s a lot of mileage gotten by lamenting the cowboy as a vanishing breed. But if you don’t live out here with the cows and the brush, how would you know? It would be like me writing odes to the vanishing cricket player. I don’t see any or know any, so they must be vanishing. Let me assure you, though some may have a job in town, there are still plenty of cowboys out there who can get the job done.

REAL THING

He was lookin’ for work. I was buildin’ corrals, stretchin’ wire, layin’ rock, and clearin’ brush. I asked him what he could do. He said, “I’m a cowboy.” For six months, Frank built corrals, stretched wire, laid rock, and cleared brush. He worked hard and stayed on. It was skilled labor but hard on the back and hands.

Last spring, I went to Gerald’s branding and asked him if I could bring along an extra hand. Gerald said the more, the merrier. “Can he ride?” he asked.

“Well,” I replied, “he told me he was a cowboy.”

We got to the ranch and Gerald got him mounted. Frank had brought an old rope but no chaps or spurs. We rode out to gather the bunch. Gerald asked me if I’d drag calves to the fire, since we were shorthanded. Flattered, I said, “You bet.” By midmorning, we’d gathered a hundred or so cows with calves into a tight trap.

On Gerald’s orders, we were trying to sort out a big high-horned half-Bramer barren cow. Four times we got her to the gate, and four times she broke back. Gerald was determined, and he is a good cowboy. He roped her and started draggin’ her toward the gate. She went down. Wouldn’t budge. Stuck like a D-8 Cat in a cranberry bog.

“Git another rope on her!” Gerald hollered. While I was fumblin’ around tryin’ to unleash my rope, I saw a beautiful flat loop sail over my horse’s nose from left to right and settle around the cow’s butt. Frank’s rope came tight. One hard pull, and she was on her feet, then Gerald and Frank drug her out the gate. The dynamics of our little group changed perceptively.

Thirty minutes later, we had ’em in the branding corral. All but one two-hundred-pound black bally calf. He was wild as a deer, and it took us several tries to get him back up to the fence, but he couldn’t find the gate. Gerald eased up to within ten feet, threw an easy loop, . . . and missed. The calf spun like an Olympic swimmer and shot between us. I heard a whiz and a whoosh. Frank had thrown his rope from a sideways position, fired it like a harpoon, and caught that calf goin’ straight away on a dead run at twenty feet.

Gerald looked at me. “I b’lieve I’ll ask Frank if he’ll drag ’em to the fire.”

“It would be the right thing,” I said, with a newfound respect we both felt. Frank, whose real name is Francisco, is still buildin’ fences and settin’ posts for me. There’s lots of Franks and Franciscos and Bobbys, Josés, Eddies, and Rogers out there sellin’ feed, teachin’ school, drivin’ trucks, and pickin’ strawberries. Drawin’ a paycheck.

That’s what they do, but it’s not what they are. If you ask ’em, they’ll look you straight in the eye and tell ya, “Soy un vaquero.” . . . “I’m a cowboy.”