LONGEARS-101

The following story is a selection from a book being written by one of our old friends and longtime muleman, Oris G. Reed.  This is printed with is permission.  Thank you, Oris! 

To contact Mr. Reed  email to:  orisreed@centurytel.net

Along the Back Roads of Yesterday

Ol’ Blue and Charlie

by

Oris G. Reed

"Oris, for once in your life will you sit down to eat your breakfast! For heaven’s sake, chew your food and drink your milk." Mom was winding up for a nagging speech. I couldn’t wait to get out of the house before she got started. "Furthermore, you have no business going up on the mountain by yourself today – or any day, so far as that goes."

" But M-a-a-w-m! Dad said I could go."

"I don’t care what your dad said. You have no business up there alone."

What did she know about anything? I had ol’ Blue, my donkey, and Ring, my dog. I was eleven years old and didn’t need anyone telling me what I could or couldn’t do.

"Where on that mountain are you going?" She asked. "Every time I ask you a question, you say you don’t know. Well, young man, you tell me where you’re going and when you’ll be back, or by thunder you won’t go! Do you hear me?"

Past experience had taught me when she said, "Do you hear me?", I’d better turn on the innocence look I had developed into an art, for just such occasions, and give her the answer she wanted.

"I’m going up the old clay road to the west side of the rockslide." Wearing my much practiced "innocent look" that usually got me out of trouble (I’d spent much time in front of the dresser mirror perfecting the expression), I looked her straight in the eye and said, "Gee Mom, I’m sorry about last Saturday. I won’t let it happen again."

At the time, I didn’t think much about it. Now, that I am older and wiser – my wife Pat will debate my being "wiser"–, I often think about what could have happened that September day in 1945. It’s a wonder, in my youthful ignorance, ol’ Blue and I didn’t do more harm than good.

That September morning in 1945 started like any other Saturday morning – out of bed by 5:00am. Mom snapped from her bedroom, "Quit clatter-assing around and let the rest of us sleep."

Living on a ranch meant extra chores each Saturday. This morning, I was going up on the mountain to gather pine cones. Mr. Kissinger, the owner of the local hardware store, paid me two cents a dozen for all the big pine cones I could bring to his store.

Ol’ Blue, Ring and I had spent the last three weekends up on the mountain gathering cones. Last Saturday, Ring, my trusty black dog, had run two different rabbits into their holes at two different times. I wondered if that crazy dog knew he’d never catch a rabbit. The first rabbit scampered into the safety of its hole behind a Yucca plant. Ring looked at me with a look that said, "Ain’t you gonna get outta that cart and help me dig this here rabbit outta it’s hole?" Naturally, an effort had to be made to help Ring flush the rabbit out. Pine cone picking came to a halt. Ring wouldn’t give up. He was sure he could dig a rabbit out of its hole. The crazy dog didn’t know the rabbit had a back door he used to escape pesky dogs. It was the rabbit’s fault we were late getting to the pine cones. Sometimes rabbits will interfere to keep young boys from executing their well-layed plans.

Time slipped away and darkness came creeping down the side of the mountain before the cart was filled with cones. It was deep down "coal dark" by the time we descended onto the county road. In my mind, I saw all kinds of scary evil shapes floating across the road in front of us as ol’ Blue pulled the cart over the road toward home. She never flicked an ear. I wasn’t that brave. This time, I wanted to get an early start so I could be home before dark.

Chores were finished in record time and breakfast downed in a few gulps. I fed, curried, brushed, harnessed and hooked Blue to the cart before she knew what had happened. At last, we were on our way.

"Don’t be in such a ram-roddin’ rush," Mom called as we drove past the porch. She handed me a jug of water and a Karo syrup bucket containing a lunch. "Mind you don’t drink out of the creek. There’s no tellin’ what germs are swimmin’ around in that water. Young man, you make sure you’re home by chore time. You hear me?" Brutus, Mom’s big Rhode Island Red rooster, crowed as we drove past the chicken coop. He was saying, "I hope you’re late gettin’ home and get in big trouble." Roosters like to see young boys get in trouble.

"Thanks for the lunch, Mom. You make the best lunches." I figured it wouldn’t cause me pain to elaborate on the lunch. Moms like to hear those kinda things. "Don’t worry. I’ll be home in time to do chores."

When we reached the county road, Ring jumped into the cart and sat on the seat beside me. The cooing of a mourning dove broke the early morning silence. The trace chains jingled a cheerful tune as we made our way along the road. What else did I need!? I owned the best donkey in the county. My faithful dog was by my side. I planned to make a small fortune gathering cones. Best of all, I managed to keep Mom from thinking I should take my bothersome little brother with me. I felt like a man full-grown.

The county road ended about two miles from our house. From the end of the road, we followed a trail to the creek. When we got to the creek, ol’ Blue didn’t want to get her feet wet. She was determined that no amount of urging would coax her into getting her dainty feet wet. Slapping her rump with the lines didn’t work. Using my Scout knife, I cut a switch off a tree (with which an effort was made to kill her). Still, she refused to budge. Trying to lead her into the water failed. The harder I pulled on the bit ring, the longer her neck stretched (at least to a length of six or eight feet).

Ring stood with his head cocked first one way then another, taking in the whole scene. Suddenly, he started barking and nipping at ol’ Blue’s heels. Across the creek she bolted, knocking me off balance and into the water. When Blue, the cart, and the dog reached the other side, she stopped and turned to look at me with a look that said, " What’s wrong with you? I’m gonna tell the whole world how stupid you looked lying on your back in the crick."

Sixty years later, I can still see that blue donkey hooked to the cart, looking at me with the corners of her mouth turned up and a twinkle in her eye. By the time I waded across the creek, I was laughing, too.

The rest of the way up the mountain was uneventful. The warm sun dried my wet clothes, ol’ Blue was making good time. A PiZon Squawker scolded us as we rattled past his tree. He said, "What are you and that funny-looking donkey doing trespassing on my mountain?" Ring was off chasing a rabbit and was spared the Squawker’s agitated chatter. About an hour later, we reached the cone-picking area.

I looped the lines around the left hame. Blue, like the good donkey she was, stood patiently while I filled the bucket with shiny cones and emptied them into the cart. She followed as I moved further into the trees.

When I first arrived, I noticed a black saddled horse standing in an open area. I looked around several times but didn’t see anyone. Ring started barking at something in a thicket of currant bushes. Ol’ Blue began to get nervous. She stood with her ears alert and pointed toward the thicket. Ring ventured into the bushes. I could hear someone talking to him, "Good dog. Easy boy. Where’d you come from?’

I set my half-filled bucket down and cautiously walked over to the bushes. I found a man lying on his back on the ground. He looked up at me and said, "Damn, kid, am I ever glad to see you! My horse bucked me off and I’m in one hell-uva-fix." Ring walked up to him and gave him a warm – wet lick in the left ear.

I responded by saying, "You don’t look like much of a cowboy to me." As soon as the words dropped out of my mouth, I was sorry I’d said anything. All at once I didn’t feel very smart. I could tell at a glance he was in bad shape. His right leg was twisted and lying at an awkward angle. A trickle of blood showed at the left corner of his mouth. I felt as dumb as the knots on a potato. I knew he needed help.

"Mr." I said, "I’ll go get some help." In one frantic sweep, I gathered the lines from the hame on ol’ Blue’s collar and jumped in the cart.

"Hey! Wait a minute kid. How big is that cart?"

"Big enough to hold two bales of hay." I said.

"Can you back that cart close and help me into it so you can get me outta here? I need to get to a doctor as soon as possible."

Ol’ Blue did her part and backed the cart into the thicket. The look on her face told me she had been saving lives for a long time.

"Kid," he said, "we’ll need some sticks and something to bind them in place so we can make a splint."

Out came my Scout knife. I cut three large currant stalks. Next, I caught his horse, and removed one of the bridle reins. We then made a splint for his injured leg. By the time we finished the splint, I was scared. I was nervous. I was shaking like an Aspen leaf in the wind. To make matters worse, when he tried to move, it appeared he might have a broken rib or two.

"Take your belt and fasten it to mine. We’ll cinch it around my chest," he said. "We’ll see if that helps."

When I tightened the belts around his chest, he let loose with a string of cuss words I had never in all the years of my sheltered life heard. He cussed with feeling and eloquence. (Later, when I grew old enough to cuss, I tried to cuss with the eloquence he used that day on the mountain.) Through it all, ol’ Blue stood as still as thick cream in a jar.

Getting him into the cart was no easy task. I spread my coat on top of the cones. (No way would I take the cones out.) The cart box was short. His good leg hung over the end gate. Ol’ Blue willingly gave up her collar pad for a cushion to protect his leg from the tailgate.

No room remained in the cart for me. I jumped on ol’ Blue’s back and we started down the mountain. The Miller place was the closest. We headed there. Every time the cart hit a bump and jolted, the injured man yelled or cussed, sometimes both.

Would ol’ Blue cross the creek? Upon reaching the water’s edge, she stopped dead-in-her-donkey-tracks and lowered her head to sniff the water. She raised her head and told me if I forced her into the crick, she would tell my mother I wanted to wear a white starched shirt to Sunday School. (Sometimes donkeys will resort to such dirty tricks.) I kicked her in the ribs and slapped her rump with the doubled-up lines. Ring got into the act again. A few nips at her heels and she stepped into the water. Halfway across, she stopped and tried to lay down. The shafts on the cart kept her from lying down all the way, but she kept trying. During ol’ Blue’s shenanigans, I got my second dunking of the day. (If I’d had a gun, I woulda shot that donkey graveyard-dead right there in the middle of the creek.) The cussin’ and hollerin’ from the cart led me to believe my injured passenger felt the same way.

By the time I opened the gate into Miller’s horse pasture, Ring was barking at their front door. Mrs. Miller told me she would always remember the sight, that day, of a wet boy, on a wet blue roan donkey pulling a cart. Tied to the cart was a black horse and hanging out the end of the cart was a man’s leg.

The Millers placed a mattress in the bed of their pickup and helped the visibly shaken man from the cart and onto the mattress. The mattress would make his ride to the hospital a little more comfortable than his trip off the mountain.

Mrs. Miller pinched my left cheek and said, "You’re a good little boy."

I’d had enough of the injured man, and didn’t want Mrs. Miller pinching my cheek again and calling me "a good little boy." I climbed into the cart, whistled for Ring, and went back up the mountain to pick more pine cones.

Late one afternoon several weeks later, I was feeding the chickens. A pickup drove into the yard. Ring barked like he’d never seen a pickup before. (I think he barked sometimes just to hear his head rattle.) I ambled over to the chicken yard fence and watched a man on crutches get out of the passenger’s side. Mom came from the house to meet him. He said something to her. She pointed to me.

"Oris, come here." Mom called.

I turned and started toward the gate. Standing between me and the gate was Brutus, Mom’s red rooster, with his feathers ruffled and strutting back and forth. He looked at me and said, "What ya doin’? I’ve a good mind to peck your eyes out. Try to get past me and you’ll wish ya’d never been born." He threw his cigar away, spread his wings and came at me. I tossed a handful of corn at him. The greedy bird forgot all about me.

"Do you know this man?" Mom asked.

I answered, "No, Mam."

"I’m Charlie Vicman, the not-so-very-good cowboy you hauled off the mountain," he laughed.

Mom gave me her silent "What-have-you-been-up-to?" look.

Charlie handed me a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with white string. "This is for you." He said.

I took the package and stood looking at the ground. (Sometimes young boys are quiet even though mother’s can’t remember a time when they were.)

Charlie put his arm around my shoulders and said, "Go ahead and open it."

I broke the string and opened the package. Inside was a blue western shirt. I knew I should say something, but my brain ran away and my mouth wouldn’t work. I stood and brushed at my jeans with my right hand.

"Tell the man thank you," Mom said.

I looked at Charlie. The smile on his face went all the way around to the back of his neck. "Thank you, Sir, for the shirt."

"What’s this all about?" Mom asked.

Charlie sat down on the porch steps and proceeded to tell how his horse had thrown him onto a large rock and broke his leg. And, how I had hauled him off the mountain in the cart. As he talked to Mom and filled her in on the details, I began to think Charlie was okay.

"Mr. Vicman. Oris has a habit of not telling us what he does or what goes on in his own private little world. He hadn’t breathed a word about you." Then she invited him to supper to meet Dad. I was okay with that.

That fall and winter Charlie spent a lot of time at our house. He and my parents became close friends. As time went on, from him, I learned to appreciate good books. He made Les Miserables come alive for me. To this day, A Tale of Two Cities is one of my favorites.

Charlie wouldn’t have joined a club. He wasn’t much for going to church. He cussed some, maybe even bent the law a little, and he liked a shot of whiskey once in a while, but he was my idol. The following 4^th of July will forever be a special day in my life. Charlie won the Bareback Bronc ride at the rodeo. I was proud to be his friend.

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