Nelda L. Smith
My life as a cowgirl began as a young adult. I met my husband during my senior year in high school and fell under the spell of his cowboy charm. We married after my graduation and moved to the Mayer Ranch in the Oklahoma Panhandle. My first round up was a series of cartoon-like blunderings of a city girl dressed up like a cowgirl.
I was a naïve but willing cowgirl.For whatever reason, maybe the luck of the draw (or not), I was designated to ride Bandit. The cowboys assured me he was gentle. He was a beautiful chestnut quarter horse with black mane and tail. However, they didn’t tell me he didn’t like being separated from his mares and that he was very insistent on having his own way. They also conveniently forgot to tell me that he was a stallion and had been moved from his brood of mares only three days earlier. At that time, I didn’t know anything about the true nature of a stallioThe brisk morning air caused him to feel frisky and fit.
We started on our round-up at first light. I was given a spare pair of gloves that were several sizes too large. I was bundled up for the chill in such a way as to encumber me drastically. I was able to get on board without much ado and we left the corral as a unit.
I was riding along between the accomplished cowboys. My husband and the other cowboys took turns dismounting and opening the wire gates as we passed through several pastures getting to the herd of cows, the objects of our mission. As soon as we arrived inside the pasture we headed straightway for the northern-most point and the cowboys then split up and galloped away in opposite directions, some going to the east and others to the west. My instructions were to follow the herd and keep any stragglers from turning back. They forgot to tell Bandit that this was our responsibility. I had become somewhat complacent and was setting there relaxed when he suddenly turned and began galloping straight for the open gates. He was determined to return to his girls. I hollered and pulled on the reins as much as I could with my right hand. He didn’t respond to my yells or jerks on the reins. He sensed he had gained control of the situation. I was hanging onto the saddle horn with my left hand which was slipping right out of the oversized glove. Suddenly my husband galloped up along side us and cornered Bandit in the fence line corner of the pasture, next to the gate. Bandit’s sudden stop threw me out of the saddle. I grabbed his neck and mane and held on for dear life. I didn’t exactly get thrown off but my dismount left much to be desired and gave the cowboys a hoot.
That durn horse was still going to show me who was boss and planted a hoof right on top of my foot. I smacked him upside the head with the reins and I removed my foot. After a few moments I remounted Bandit, tightly gripped the reins with both hands. Furthermore, I was able to maintain a safe distance behind the herd, zigzagging so as not to lose any stragglers. I successfully stayed on board and the round-up concluded without further incident. I can say I was greatly relieved when we arrived back at the corral.
Branding was a joint effort with neighboring ranches. Each person had specific tasks. The ropers and flankers brought the calves to the fire pit where the branding irons were hot and ready to sear the hides of the calves. Flankers usually were the cowboys or cowgirls that grabbed the flank quarters of the calf and held the back legs. The calves were wrestled to the ground by other cowboys or cowgirls and held while the foreman or owner stood ready to mark their ownership with the pre-heated branding irons. Castration was done only by the experienced cowhands and the entire branding process was done with precision and great teamwork. Since I couldn’t rope and wasn’t physically equipped to wrestle the calves, and certainly not strong enough to hold a thrashing, squirming calf down, I was delegated to the kitchen to feed the crew.
There was one young lady who was appropriately dressed in chaps, cowboy boots, spurs, and cowboy hat. She was muscular and had been around this process before. She could grab a calf, wrestle it to the ground, and hold it while they branded it. She could throw calves just like “one of the boys.” I do recall that my husband and the other cowboys bragged on her expertise as a cowgirl. All 5’2” inches and 100 pounds of me vowed to learn to ride Bandit and throw a calf (the small ones anyway).
I felt totally inadequate, and I think this was the first hint that maybe being a cowgirl wasn’t really my calling. I walked funny for several days after the round-up, but I did become the boss in my relationship with Bandit over the next several months. I could saddle him and ride him whenever the need arose.
On one occasion while I was riding Bandit, I discovered an orphan antelope that was hidden in the rough terrain of a pasture. Her mother had been killed by coyotes and she was just hanging around her mother’s lifeless body. I took her home and raised Skeeter until she needed to be set free. One day I was expecting the ladies from the home extension club and I knew she would cause problems so I locked her in the well house. This of course went against her nature and she broke the window in her attempt to escape. She cut her neck, which resulted in a permanent scar (a unique identifying mark). She would butt the doors and demand I come out to play with her. So for her protection and my sanity, we moved her to the corral. I saw a buck circling the lot quite regularly and one morning I went out to feed her and she was gone. We concluded that he had enticed her to join his harem. Thereafter, I did recognize her amidst the herd when I rode the pastures and sometimes she would hang back as though there was a flicker of remembrance.
My lessons as a ranch hand were many. I was dumb and foolish. Therefore, I fell into the trap of being the eager student. On one occasion, the ranch hands left the headquarters to go to the farm near Eva, Oklahoma to plant wheat. One of my jobs was to put the orphan calves in with the milk cows to nurse twice daily. I had observed the process on several occasions and knew the routine. Well, when the calves had nursed for the allotted time, I was to move them back to their pen. The quirk was not available on this particular evening and so I decided I would improvise and do as my husband had done. I reared back to kick the calf in the belly (as I had seen others do) when the calf moved just enough so I kicked him in the hip instead and broke my toe. I tossed and turned all night trying to figure how I could explain this to my husband. When I went to the doctor, he was incredulous that I had broken my toe by kicking a calf (a first for him).
This same doctor was the one who rescued one of the prized registered quarter horses from a life and death situation. We were managing the ranch in the absence of Mr. Mayer and family. The horse got bit on the nose by a rattlesnake and was quickly becoming disoriented and losing his ability to breathe. We tried desperately to get hold of the veterinarian without success, as it was Sunday. I contacted a doctor to get some anti-venom and he agreed to give the horse a shot if we came to the back entrance of the clinic and parked the stock trailer a block away. The other stipulation was that we were not to tell anyone that he had doctored a horse. He is retired now so I can tell this tale.
My husband broke horses professionally for the neighboring ranches. I was his partner, so it was my good fortune to have the assignment of riding the horses after he had decided they were broken. He figured if I could ride them anyone could. In retrospect, I know that I had a guardian angel watching over me as I was never bucked off or injured.
Another experience came about when the ranch hands were gone and the pumpjack or something had come unbolted on the windmill. The owner’s wife and I were given the task of repairing the windmill. (I don’t know why we didn’t get a windmill repairman.) Anyway, I was designated to climb to the second platform of the windmill and replace the broken bolt. I couldn’t act scared because Mrs. Mayer had done it numerous times. I had to be at least as capable as she was. Thank goodness it was a day without high winds or blowing dust. As I climbed the twenty or so feet into the air on the wooden windmill I was gripping the hand holds so tightly that my knuckles were turning white and my knees were shaking. I prayed a lot and I am sure I was holding my breath. I do remember the world looked much different from that height. Miraculously, I was able to replace the bolt without any complications. When I descended to the ground below I silently said a humongous, “Thank you, Lord.”
When that marriage ended, his complaint at the divorce hearing was that I never learned to rope.
When I married my present husband, I stipulated that I wouldn’t ride horses, milk cows, rope calves, or fix windmills. I can say truthfully in our thirty-five years of marriage these have not been a requirement for being his wife.
I am now an artist and paint pictures of cowgirls expressing my respect for their talents.