🔵 By Matthew Boivin. Photo by lauragrafie.
“Attention, Mod-2! You’re now on lockdown. Attention, Mod-2. You are now on lockdown.”
The intercom blared around 5 pm on a Tuesday to let us know we were somehow more locked down then we were just moments before. The same heavy steel door to the hallway was still locked, and the gate to the free world was still solidly closed. I asked myself what really changed from just a moment before. The administration ordered the entire barracks locked down for Covid protocols because one man tested positive. A negative Covid test is required by law before any man can be released from prison. The Arkansas Supreme Court even ruled a prisoner who completed 100% of his entire sentence could be held three days beyond his final discharge date. I understand the concept, but like everything else in prison, there’s what happens on paper, then there’s what really happens. So to an old hand like me, it was just another day, but the concept of lockdown took its toll on others. On just the second day, the last two men in line for their food tray off the flat cart shoved into the barracks had to yell, “Who got my tray?” Seems some of the men earlier in the line grabbed more than their share. The officers pushed the cart in the barracks and locked the door back – every man for himself. The tray count is exact – no room for the double-up. Some of us old hands addressed the barracks. “We all gotta live together. This shit ain’t that good.Come on with those trays.” The men with eyes bigger than their stomachs gave the trays to the men who didn’t get theirs, and we walked past a potential little conflict like grown men.
That of course raised a moral question for me: Is it worse that security made us fight for our food like animals or that we initially resorted to fighting for our food like animals without the presence of security? The week before we went on lockdown, one man began crying to the security that he had Covid and needed to be tested. The nurse tested for symptoms – no fever, no cough, no test. Poor man convinced himself he had Covid, and when the nurse wouldn’t test him, he went to the Field Major demanding a test. The Major, of course referred him to the same nurse. The man was really just crying because he didn’t want to work, and Covid was a good an excuse as any. Logically, a Covid test should be available when needed to control the spread inside the prison, but logic and prison are diametrically opposed. A positive Covid test means an increase in spending – man hours, medical treatment, and most importantly – $600 per day in Styrofoam trays. Our ten-day lockdown cost $6000 just to feed us. Multiply that across all 18 units, and the cost is pretty high. So in favor of saving money, a Covid test is hard to get here. After about the fourth day of lockdown the threats of physical violence set in. The same man who was crying for a lockdown started crying about being locked down as soon as it started. I was minding my own business writing another issue of The Tales when I heard, “Get the f* away from me!” The same crying man was yelling at one of his “friends”. He was screaming “Get away from me. I don’t want to hear it. I told you to get the f* away before I beat your ass.” Now, all of a sudden, the crybaby was tough. The scene played out with just yelling, and the two men are “friends” again doing Bible studies together. Neither one of them can fight a lick and both are weaker than well water, but the weakest men are generally the loudest. A frightened dog barks, snarls and growls at the thing it’s afraid of, but an attack dog just rushes in to rip out a throat quickly. Nothing brings the animal out quite like being locked in a cage all day and night. The weakest minds break the fastest when strength is measured by the ability to resist the pressure of the cage.
Fortunately, the lockdown only lasted ten days. When I had Covid in May, 2020, the lockdown lasted 53 days. This time, tough, the administration was entirely different so the reaction was different. All in all, there was only one actual fight that was more a slap-fest than a fistfight. Two men that couldn’t handle the pressure of their own minds slapped and pushed each other with a resounding “Stop playing with me.” I just rolled over and went back to sleep – it was that inconsequential. I was glad when I was called back to work just to get away from the nonsense.
Our first task was to worm our 15 bulls. Around May, the bulls will get turned out with the cows to earn their keep after getting fat all winter. Worming them is just a matter of catching them in the chute to feet the wormer into their mouth. The only remarkable thing was that Bow kicked up his heels under me after 10 days without work. He crow-hopped and stretched out for about 15 seconds, but I held him. We went to work penning the bulls after his little spree, and that was that. The adventure worth writing about happened about a week after we got off lockdown. New calves are coming every day, so Bow and I get plenty of riding time. Our supervisor spotted a crippled cow in the pasture that needed medication, so we went after her. Five of us on horseback found her, but only three took turns throwing a rope at her. Quick little 3-legged cow gave us a run for our money hobbling as fast as a horse trots. I usually hang back on medication runs because Bow carries the meds in his saddlebags. It wouldn’t do well for me to rope the cow then hop off Bow to give her shots. That puts Bow tied off to a cow by himself. He can handle the pressure with just two horses on the cow, but I don’t put him in that position when there are plenty of horses. Better to let another horse hold the rope than to risk one mistake that could get us all hurt. I can evade a mad cow, but if Bow is tied off, that cow can do some serious damage to him. He’s far too good a horse to risk. The cow hobble scooted herself out from under six attempts to catch her as she high-tailed it to the river bank. The pasture she was in bordered the Arkansas river, and she ran straight to the water in a cove created by the Army Corps of Engineers. The bank was deep, damp sand littered with fallen trees, driftwood, and trash left behind when the river went down. She thought we wouldn’t go get her, but once she was standing still, the rope landed right where it was supposed to. Kate, a Dapple Gray mare, pulled the cow to the bank where we could work her in the sand. The cow put up a fight, trying to get away from the rope, but Kate turned with her, keeping the rope tight on that cow’s neck. The cowboy on Kate forgot to tighten his back girth strap, and the cow almost pulled the saddle off Kate, but she ran out of breath before she pulled Kate down. I hopped off Bow and grabbed my supervisor’s rope to get it around the cow’s back legs. On my way to the cow, I thought I could push her down since she was choked. My little 140-pounds hit the shoulder of a 1,000-pound cow, and she just turned to look at me with bloodshot eyes. I laughed at myself as I imagined her saying “Really?”
I worked the lasso under her back feet in the sand and spider stretched her out. Once we got her under control lying on her side, I gave her some antibiotics, and we let her go. She stood up and shook the sand off as she stepped out of the loop around her back legs. She looked at the horses surrounding her deciding which way to run and charged Patch. He was the horse between her and the river, so she pushed past him on her way to refuge in the water. That didn’t work out too well for her the first time, but cows aren’t fast learners. That’s why we eat them. I was putting hay out on a sunny 70° afternoon three days later when I saw her again. The leg wasn’t showing signs of improvement so I recommended to our young supervisor we move her to the office for continued medical treatment. She’s only three years old and carrying a calf. It wouldn’t do any good to lose her to the coyotes while giving birth. Then a good cow and a calf would be lost. I wouldn’t stand to lose her on my ranch, so why would I stand to lose her here? She may be a state cow and not my responsibility at all, but what kind of cowboy would I be if I didn’t take care of the cows that would otherwise be my livelihood?
The next day brought an Arkansas cold front with a chilly wind. The television weather girl said it was 39°, but it felt colder under that wind. I saddled Bow, put my spurs on, and loaded him on the trailer with spider and Patch. We planned to pull her into the trailer by sheer force and Spider, Bow and Patch are our three strongest horses. Two men drove the tractor pulling the stock trailer while I rode on the back of the supervisor’s truck to the pasture where I last saw the cow. We unloaded the horses under a gray mid-morning sky, and I tightened my saddle for the work I had in front of me. I tightened the latigo and Bow turned his head to look at me. I patted his neck, fastened the back girth strap and told him, “Let’s go get this cow”, as I swung my leg over the saddle. We walked through the herd of about 150 cows, taking the time to look at the knobbly knees of some week-old calves. Soon, we’ll have little packs of calves running around like puppies kicking up their heels playfully. I don’t often express my emotions off paper, but I am filled with a sense of peace every time I see a group of new calves enjoying the freshness of their lives. I’ll take a moment to rein Bow in, letting the wind blow across my face as I sit for a moment taking in the sense of freedom in the light brown Bermuda grass leading to the river bank. It reminds me of the long-forgotten sound of a woman’s clear laughter floating across a park on a warm day. It’s the simplest things I miss the most after being gone so long.
Right now, tough, it’s the work that reminds me I’m alive, so I recoil my rope as I look for the crippled cow. I spot her beside a hay bale and whistle for the other two cowboys. The cow knows what time it is after her last roping and lifts herself from her repose gearing up to run from the ropes. I hang back a little letting my supervisor and the other cowboy miss their throws. While they gathered their ropes, I spurred Bow forward for our turn to miss. Bow and I have done this so many times, we’ve developed into a team. He puts his nose close to that cow’s hip, and I worry about getting the rope around her neck. Bow uses his natural cow sense to track her, following her at the same distance slightly behind her no matter where she runs. He’s definitely the stronger partner as my rope lands just over her ears, but not far enough to fall over her head. We peel off the cow to recoil my rope and get ready for another throw. The other two miss again, and Bow lines up on her for our turn. This time, as I’m swinging my lasso I let the top out for a bigger loop. I’m watching that cow’s back, whirling the rope with a longer spoke, seeing her caught before I even throw. I’ve made up my mind I’m catching her this time. Bow tracks her exactly as I’m swinging the rope, waiting for that tilt of her head that’ll drop the rope around her. I’m ready to throw and speed up my swing for the release when I feel Bow shift leads. He gathers himself for a turnaround, putting his weight on his inside foot, preparing to cross over his outside leg for a quick cut inside. We’ve practiced this move a thousand times, and his body told me that cow was ready to change directions. I checked my throw but kept my swing alive switching from an overhand to a side saving. As the cow turned back and Bow cut with her, that low swing was waiting for her. The horse, cow, and rope all came together in that moment. I dallied off to my saddle horn and shifted my weight to the outside stirrups as Bow snatched that rope tight. She pulled against the rope and tossed her head around, but Bow wasn’t having any more nonsense. He kept facing her, keeping that rope tight. She stopped fighting and just looked at Bow angrily. We held her tight while another rope was skipped over her head for Spider to hold her in a cross-tie.
The trailer was backed in front of her, and the supervisor opened the trailer door to run Spider’s rope through the trailer side panels. The cow shifted at one of the most dangerous moments, but the fight was short-lived. Spider’s rope was back around his saddle in just a few seconds. I let my rope go, and Bow shifted beside the trailer knowing what comes next. I grabbed my rope through the trailer and dallied back to the saddle horn. On cue, Spider and Bow walked forward together on both sides, pulling that cow into the trailer. The supervisor slammed the cut gate, and she was well and truly caught. We reached through the trailer snatching the ropes free and loaded the horses behind her to head back to the office. Once we got her to the office, we took the horses off the trailer and unloaded her into the holding pen. I caught her in the head chute to take a look at the injured hoof. Whatever she got into tore a chunk of flesh just above her hoof. It was filled with dirt and pus, so I washed the wound, sprayed it with a typical cleanser and packed it with calcium carbonate. The slaked lime will help dry the wound, and close it faster. After an infection of antibiotic under the skin of her neck, I opened the chute. She came out of the chute mad looking for somebody to take it out on. Of course, she didn’t pay attention to me waving my arms and yelling at her. I stepped closer but she just looked at me like I was the crazy one. This cow was determined to get her some get back. When she dropped her head to charge, I hopped on the pipe fence and planted a boot heel between her eyes. She turned away in a huff, kicking one last time as she trotted away just to make her point. I laughed at her and closed up shop, making sure she had hay and water before we went in for the day.
Being back in the barracks reminded me that soon enough, this phase will all be over. When I make it out to that world again, I’ll be chasing my own cows, training my own horses, and raising my own calves. The day will come when I will no longer be a prison cowboy. I’ll just be a cowboy doing what I can to stay out of prison. Interestingly enough, prison taught me to be the man I am; doesn’t mean I want to be locked down again, tough.