Cinches and Kindness

I watched Sarah, our cowhand from Redding, draw that cinch tight around Teri’s barrel shaped midsection. The indomitable and somewhat bitchy roan mare broke her stoic demeanor for a second and grunted in response to Sarah’s firm pull. It was tight, but not too tight. Sarah’s experienced hand got it just right.

And then I noticed the cinch. The cinch attaches to the leather of the saddle, and goes around the underneath belly of the horse. Normally, we use braided mohair cinches, handcrafted by our local saddlemaker, Kirk Klemmer. But this one had weird looking bands knitted in its smooth exterior, and a strange loose piece of pocket fabric sticking out. I quizzed Sarah. “What the heck kind of cinch is that?” I always kept tabs, even from a distance, on tack and its condition for the benefit of horse…and rider.

Sarah, in her worn straw hat and leather chinks (also known as chaps) was working intently on her gear, and had her back to me. Her flannel shirt was a little matted and ripped. At least her jeans were holding together, probably because she had chinks on. She was tying her brown and weathered oilskin slicker to the back of the saddle behind the cantle. She turned her head nonchalantly so I could hear her reply. “Oh—those? Yeah, so, they’re Josh’s socks.”

“His what?”

“His socks.” She turned to face me, pointing at the weird pocketing. “See? That’s the heel.” She smiled, and continued. “Josh just figured the mohair was tough on Teri’s armpit flesh—it was kind of sticking out between the braided cords, and he gave up his socks to take care of her.”

I looked closer. Sure enough, Josh had threaded a soft wool sock on each side of the cinch, and poked a hole for the buckle part where it attached to the leather latigo on its way to the saddle. Teri’s potential saddle and cinch sores were well taken care of by Josh’s thoughtfulness.

Now it all came together. I was wondering why Josh had to run barefoot for a while in his cowboy boots. I had heard the crew talking about it, and now, Josh had been dealing with a blister that turned rogue from where a stitched seam inside his boot rubbed his ankle open. He rode and walked barefoot in his boots for a day or so that way, and it turned out to be a perfect place for Josh’s foot to get infected.

Now, although he wasn’t trying to show it, I could tell he was having trouble walking. He’d been in remote cow camp 4, Bear Aspen Camp, for a few days and was a long way from medical attention.

But this was his ticket out. Gelding Sable would carry Josh the 7-8 miles back. With Josh would be his Australian Shepherd, Bindy, and 15 beeves ready for harvest. They would head down to the nearest corral in the middle of our Hat Creek range on the 760 acre Little Hat Ranch – our tiny piece of ownership in the middle of 70 square miles of broken mountain and canyon country. It would be a slow, meandering run down hot Pig Creek canyon, but there were several springs they and cattle could drink from on the way, and abundant grass. They would graze their way back over the entire 8 miles. I was to meet him there at nightfall, and there we would climb in the gooseneck trailer for the hour long trip back to the ranch.

I finally met Josh again near the bottom of Pig Creek, where it emptied its rocky belly into our Little Hat Ranch. The sun was bouncing along the jagged horizon, and soon bid us goodbye. In the thick brush and beaver swamps, Josh and I kept the little herd of finished wild range fed beeves moving quietly in the dusk. The only trouble was that Josh had to dismount a lot, pumping infection further into his already swollen leg. I had no idea how grave his situation was for two reasons: first, he never tells you about his pain, and second, it was too dark to see him hobbling.

By the time we got near to the trailer, it was full on dark. The only distinct lights came from above in the form of Venus to the west and Jupiter overhead. However, the glow of the Milky Way and the Zodiac spilled across the zenith gave an ethereal light to the trail before us as we closed in on the lush area by the creek where we would drop the beeves for the night. I thought they would bed down when we released them from our walk. Instead, they just ate more, after drinking from the waters of Little Hat Creek.

We loaded up, and drove the midnight drive back to the ranch. I would gather the cattle tomorrow for staging to send to our processor. Right now, we needed to get home to cook dinner and sleep.

Josh stumbled around when we arrived at the ranch, as we took care of tack and horse. When we got to the light in the bunkhouse, he showed me his wound.

I had no idea. Now, as he rolled up his Wranglers, I took note of the nasty red line crawling up to his knee from the tiny hole on his ankle. His whole foot was swelling up and was pulsing red. I took one look at the leg, and then looked him square in the eye.

 “You need to get to the ER. Now.” I paused for seriousness. “If you don’t, you could lose your leg.”

Josh was quiet, and didn’t argue, so I knew he was convinced. “Can I just drive your dually pickup in? It’s an automatic, and I won’t have to push the clutch down to shift.”

I smiled. “Of course you can.”

So they put my man Josh on IV antibiotics at 3 that morning, and now, a week later, he is standing up in a wedding in Ohio.

And Teri’s cinch marks are healed up nicely, thanks to his socks.

I think I owe him a new pair. Don’t you?

Happy Trails.
Glenn, Caryl, Cowhands and Girls at Alderspring