🔵 By Matthew Boivin. Photo by lauragrafie.
The summer in Arkansas is long months of heat, humidity, and hungry mosquitos battling with the flies for space on a cow’s back. Heat indexes often reach over 110°F (43°C), which is where death waits on the next breath. The horses feel the heat as well, but the work must go on. Bow and I are used to the sweltering heat and can meet whatever challenges wait for us in the pasture. The Beef Herd bought 16 new bulls this season, and they turned out to be particularly challenging. For starters, the bulls are three-year-old and full of energy, always batting heads, knocking each other away from the feed troughs, and pushing each other through the barbed-wire fences. The real source of the challenges, though, is breeding. The bulls are advertised as 65 generations of selective breeding to throw a low-birth-weight calf that gains weight quickly. We lost over a dozen first-year heifers to uterine prolapse this season because they could not birth the large calves they carried. Hence, the attractiveness of a bull guaranteed to throw small calves at birth. The major drawback to all that selective breeding is that the bulls are very, very stupid. A high-energy, young, thick-headed bull is always a chance for a rodeo, and these bulls did not disappoint me or Bow.
The first challenge came from a youngster with a hurt back foot preventing him from mounting a cow. Our goal was to drive the bull into the trailed to trade him out, allowing him time to heal at the office corral. We carried some portable fence panels with us and set up a nice little four-panel chute that led right to the trailer. Convincing the bull to get there was a different challenge though. Five cowboys, myself included, set out to cut the bull from the herd. The bull did not want to be separated from the cows and gave us hell for a minute. The problem was that we are not working as a team, and the bull took full advantage of the inexperienced riders. He darted between the horses and cut back quickly when a horse go too far in front of his shoulder. Finally, Bow and I took control of the situation before we lost the bull entirely. We do not have a problem working as a team, and I kept Bow on the bull as it ran toward a bar pit looking to escape us in the waist-deep water filled with green algae. I lowered my rain hand to Bow’s copped mane in front of the saddle horn to signal it was his show now. A little squeeze of my calf muscles and Bow sped up, pressing his body directly against the bull’s shoulder causing to to turn toward the trailer trap. Bow faded back to the bull’s hip, not hesitating to pressure the bull back in line when it tried to break away. One of the other cowboys rode up to get in the way, but I waved him off; Bow had this bull now. Sure enough, Bow kept the bull on track, driving him straight toward the trap. The bull trotted between the panels just like it was planned that way. I hopped off Bow mid-stride, and he immediately stopped right where I left him as I ran into the trailed behind the bull. I slammed the cut gate just as the bull turned around to stare at me with dark, brooding eyes deciding if he wanted to charge or not. I walked out and slid the trailer door closed, heading straight to Bow who was still standing exactly where I jumped off. Best horse ever. I patted his neck for a job well done and climbed into the saddle.
The next adventure came sooner than expected and centered around the same bull. The other cowboys were supposed to trailed the bull to the office corral where we would doctor him and monitor his healing. One supervisor and I rode through the rest of the cows to check the woods for stragglers as we made our way back to the office. When we made it back, the tractor and trailed were nowhere to be seen. No sooner than we watered the horses, the other supervisor came sliding into the parking lot in a cloud of dust. “We got a bull on the levee by the Freeline,” he shouted. We mounted and took off at a trot to contain the bull before he pushed through a fence to terrorize the homes of prison staff. I am pretty sure we would never hear the end of a 1,500-pound bull crashing through a warden’s sliding glass door to destroy… well, everything. We spotted the bull at the bottom of the levee and the other cowboys at the top. Turns out, the tractor driver could not back the trailed to the loading chute. They tried to improvise a panel to cover the gap, but the angry bull crashed through it like cardboard. I could see ugly, gaping cuts shining bright red against the bull’s black coat and asked about them. They told me the bull got tangled in barbed-wire gate and snapped the railroad cross-tie as he freed himself. Not only was the bull mad as hell, but now he was hurt dripping rivulets of blood from his broad, muscled chest, too. That is the perfect recipe for a Dutch oven full of trouble stew.
Bow and I are not going to turn away from a challenge. I pointed him down the levee, and we walked toward the bull as I built a plan in my head. “We tried everything,” the cowboys told me. “That bull won’t move. He chased Mike around his horse 3 times trying to get him. That bull’s a killer.” True enough, an angry bull is extremely dangerous (Patch was bleeding, too, from getting pushed into a fence), but an angry bull cannot think. I uncoiled my rope as Bow walked toward the bull, who was watching us intently. I let the loop close all the way to the hondo until all I had was a little weight on the end of my rope. I began swinging a wide circle, noticing that each rotation set my still tender wrist on fire. I kept the rope swinging as Bow walked closer to the bull, guided only by my feet. When we were close enough to the bull, I settled back in my saddle, extending my feet a little and giving Bow a soft “Whoa”. Like the good horse he is, he responded to my body cues and stopped where I asked him to. I made each swing of the circle a little wider until the hondo hit the bull on the end of his flared nostrils. The angry beast snorted and shook his head, unable to process how I hit him from so far away. I brought the hondo around to hit him again on the next rotation. This time, he threw his head, slinging long trails of slobber as he turned away from us to follow the fence line. A gentle squeeze is all it took to signal Bow to walk forward to keep the bull headed toward the office. Occasionally, I let the hondo hit the bull on a fly-covered hip, just to let him know we were still behind him.
We reached an impasse, though, where the fence made a corner. The bull could not decide which way to go as he swung his heavy head from side to side thinking he was trapped. He turned a dark eye toward Bow, and I knew the decision was made. I readied myself for what was sure to come and swung the rope with more force. My wrist was screaming pain at me, but I was not going to let Bow get cup up by this bull pushing him through a fence. The bull charged Bow but broke away just before impact when my hondo hit him on the side of the face. Bow is no stranger to angry cattle and bravely stood his ground as the bull lumbered past us. As soon as the bull trotted by, Bow spun to follow as I recoiled my rope. The bull trotted down the levee, so we decided to open the gates for him. He would eventually make it to the corral at the other end. The other cowboys went to handle the gates as I reined Bow in. I leaned over the saddle horn to rub both sides of Bow’s neck praising him again and inwardly happy to be back working with my friend.
A month went by before any other real adventures happened. I was in the middle of our second cutting of hay, and there is only so much to tell about mowing grass with a 15-foot cutter for eight hours a day. The wheels on the tractor go ‘round and round’ as I pull the cutter back and forth, back and forth. We got enough hay cut and baled to make a showing before the day arrived to cut the bulls from the herd. Breeding season was over, and the bulls would go to pasture until next summer. The supervisors decided to corral the whole herd rather than cut the bulls in the pasture. This way, we could apply a fly treatment while we weighed and sorted the bulls. Gathering the herd to drive to the corral was an adventure in its own right. The heat was 88°F at 5 o’clock in the morning with humidity close to 75%. To a cow, 76°F is hot, and they were obviously miserable. They kept breaking for the shaded woods. Every time e had them in a neat bundle, one cow would break away, making a cowboy chase her and leaving a hole for the others to break away in the opposite direction. I cannot blame them, though. When I rode into the woods to drive them out, it was ten degrees cooler in there. It was work on the horses, but once we got the cows out of the woods, we drove them a good three miles to the corral without any other problems.
The herd was finally in the pasture surrounding the corral and ready to be worked the next day. The plan was fairly routine: push everything through the chute, spray them with fly repellent, weigh the bulls, and turn the cows and calves back out, keeping the bulls separated. As always seems to be the case, though, there was a little twist to the plan when we got started. We would have an audience this time. The social media manager was producing a piece for the prison’s Facebook page, and the Beef Herd was the centerpiece. I was surprised to see a petite, attractive cowgirl in her mid-30’s wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and a ball cap standing around in her cowgirl boots as we gathered the horses for the day. I admit I was very attracted to her. After these decades in prison, I have an image of the woman I want to raise little ranch hands with, and she fit that image. Petite? Check; Loves horses? Check; Intelligent? Check; Responsible? Check; Looks good in jeans? Check; Likes a conversation? To be determined.
She and I talked a little after I saddled Bow about the bones we have broken and the horses that broke them, but the conversation was cut short. A high-headed cow and calf were trotting along the levee the wrong way, so Bow and I went to go get her. Work comes first.
When we got to the corral, the other cowboys were just getting started rounding up the herd. The cows went along peacefully, walking into the corral with no problem. When the cows were in the sorting pens, I rode up to ask the supervisor where he wanted me. His answer came as a bit of a surprise. He assigned me to the tub. We usually save the tub as a sort of initiation for the new guys. After all, there’s no better way to test a cowboy’s mettle than the put him in a pen with 20 fly-covered, rangy cows and nowhere to go. Honestly, I was a little frustrated at first; but, in all fairness, I am the only one with the experience to keep the chute full without getting hurt. I wanted to be on Bow showing off his skills for the pretty cowgirl, though. I was imagining her in a sundress and boots with her black hair tied in ribbons as we two-stepped across a dance floor making the girls jealous and the men envious. Work is all that really matters in the end, and I moved the cattle through the tub without a hitch. At one point, she moved to the tub to get some video but daydreaming about impossibilities is a good way to get hurt quick. Maybe when I am free, I will be able to impress a pretty cowgirl; but, for now, making it through the day without getting trampled in the tub is good enough.
After the bulls were sorted and counted, there was one missing, which had to be found. The cowgirl was long gone back to the mythical land where the pretty cowgirls stay, and Bow had a saddle sore. I volunteered to drive the tractor and trailed to go hunt for the missing bull. We set the trailed and panels in our usual trap, and the cowboys went to go get the bull. I sat on top of the tractor to watch the show as they tried to cut this bull from a handful of cows intentionally left behind. I was wishing I was with Bow chasing this bull as it gave the cowboys fits, but I just watched. The ropes came out, and one rope finally landed around the bull’s thick neck. The dally slipped, though, letting the bull take off again trailing a rope. They chased him around several more turns until the bull wound up on the rocky riverbank with all four legs in the air and three ropes around his neck (none of which were dallied to a horse, incidentally.) he fell down the riverbank onto the large rocks placed by the Army Corps of Engineers to prevent erosion. Poor bull looked like a confused turtle on his back struggling to roll over and wondering how he got there in the first place.
One of the supervisors got out of his truck with a rope and walked down the riverbank with another hand. They wrapped a rope around the bull’s back legs and pulled him over. Once that bull had his feet under him, the race was on! The cowhand ran farther down the bank to put obstacles between the bull, but the supervisor ran for his truck. He was sprinting across the pasture with an angry bull right on his heels before jumping onto his flatbed. He was standing on the opposite side of our second trailer’s tongue as far away from the bull as he could get. That bull was not going to be denied, though, and he used that strong neck to rock the flatbed, placing his heavy, drool-covered chin on the bed itself to decide if he wanted to jump up there, too. The supervisor was not waiting for the bull to make up its mind and scrambled around the truck to climb in the driver’s side. That bull still did not give up! He actually lifted that big head to look into the passenger window determined to find an outlet for his anger. I thought for sure he would crush the truck door as he rubbed his head up and down making the Ford F-250 rock with every shove. The bull lost interest that quick and just walked away from the truck. The supervisor followed beside him in the truck slowly guiding him to my trailer. Just as pretty as you please, the bull walked between the panels to load up on his own. After all the drama, he walked right into the trailer, tired of us pestering him and determined to do things his way.
The adventures on the Beef Herd are so much more to me than just fun on a horse. This is the life I have right now, and each day must be intentional. At the time of this writing, I am a short eight months away from the Parole Board after 27 calendar years. October 18, 2023 will start my 18th and final year in prison. My daily adventures are training for what I know is my life’s purpose. Take the pretty cowgirl, for instance. I certainly would not hit on a prison employee (that’s another recipe for disaster), but is that really any different from society? I certainly would not hit on every attractive woman I see when I am free. I must look at every situation for what it means to my freedom, and, thereby, my continued freedom. The pretty cowgirl was just a woman doing her job and being friendly to a group of convicts. I conducted myself with her just as I would with any other woman-respectfully. Being a prisoner is no excuse to treat women with anything less than the dignity they deserve. That is a lesson often forgotten behind the walls, but one I make a point to remind myself of. As a Farrier, pretty cowgirls will be a key portion of my clientele. I will not last long if I hit on every one. To me, there is a lesson in everything because my freedom depends on my awareness. The horses and cattle teach me my future career path. And the pretty cowgirl? She taught me that there is hope for a relationship beyond these walls with a cowgirl of my own.
All in all, my work adventures are always teaching me something. My freedom is the most important thing to me in the world right now. My life has a purpose that extends beyond this prison, but it is up to me to recognize the daily lessons that will help me maintain that purpose.