cowboy — W. Clay Smith Blog

It was a long time ago but still very clear in my memory. We were going to work cows. Pop, my stepfather, believed in starting before dawn. He wanted to be riding out when the first light broke. That meant you were up early, out to the barn to saddle up, load your horse in the trailer, and ride through the early morning fog to the front gate of the pasture.

The sun had not yet broken over the horizon, though fingers of light were pushing against the fog. We stopped to unload the horses and mount up. My brother Steve and I would have the long ride this morning. We were to go to the far corner and start pushing the cows towards the pens.

If you have never ridden a horse, you do not know the stillness of riding. That morning I could hear the creak of the saddle-leather, the gentle dropping of the horses’ hooves on the grass, and the “bob-white” call of quail. The cows were still a ways off, not yet seeing us, not yet disturbed in their grazing. There was no hint of Florida’s heavy humidity and heat, just a cool dampness that seemed to rise from the ground.

Steve went left and I went right to circle around a bunch of cows off in the Heflin block. We would have to move them about a mile toward the pens. One by one, the cows lifted their heads from their morning graze, eyeing us suspiciously, but not yet moving. My horse jumped over a full drainage ditch where I saw two baby alligators in search of their morning meal.

I had made the circle and now started to ride up behind the cattle. They began to move in the desired direction, mooing to each other. Calves sought the sides of their mamas, the herd slowly gathering. An old bull stubbornly refused to move; Steve cracked his bullwhip over the bull’s back, and he got the message. Ponderously he moved to join the herd, grunting his displeasure.

The sun had risen by now, bringing not warmth, but the real heat of an early summer Florida day. The cattle were moving in the right direction, headed toward the barbed-wire gap we had opened. This was always the tricky part: keep the cattle moving without them stampeding through the fence. They were cooperative that morning, moving through the gap.

We had to gather them after they made their way into the other block. A few hard-headed cows went off in the wrong direction. I spurred my horse to outpace them, got in front of them, and then turned them back toward the herd. The noise level had risen; every cow, it seemed, had an uneasy feeling they needed to express.

Uncle Earl and Uncle Barney brought a bunch of cows from the north side, while Pop and Uncle Bedford brought a bunch from the south. Steve and I started with about 150 head; now, 300 head were in one herd, needing to get across another hundred acres before we reached another gate and the trap.

By now we had been in the saddle for a couple of hours. The critical moment had arrived. Faced with a closing box, the cattle were tempted to bolt and run. You had to keep up the pressure, keep them moving in the direction you wanted. Several times one would break out, and Steve or I would have to run them down, turn them back, and get them moving back toward the herd.

Trickles of sweat were snaking their way down my back; my horse was lathered up. We had run together (though he was doing most of the work) after the strays and worked our way back to keep the herd moving. Finally, we were at the gate that led to the trap. Three hundred cattle were trying to squeeze through a fourteen-foot gate all at once. Once they all got through, the youngest (me), swung off his horse and closed the gate. I remounted and then we pushed about half to the pens. We would get the rest of them later.

Those mornings on horseback felt so good: the quiet, the beauty, the sense of purpose. It was the kind of work a man could take pleasure in. The work seemed almost holy. Maybe it was.

In that most beloved Psalm, we are told, “The LORD is my shepherd…” Shepherd and cowboy are not the same thing, but close. I can picture the Lord out in the morning, pushing all the sheep he loves to the pen, chasing the strays, keeping the flock moving. What I know for sure is this: He wants you to be in his flock, moving in his direction.