There are times when things aren’t quite the way they seem to be.
I was young and stout and mostly swaggered around a lot. I fancied myself moderately amazing with a rope in my hand and a decent horse beneath me, and, at the time, I guess some others around did too.
It was late March and mild, with just a little nip left to the afternoon breeze. Ropers had gathered from everywhere within 100 miles to work out the kinks that had set in over the winter. It was an early two-day jackpot, washer pitching, wild horse saddling, late-night dancing extravaganza that occurred every year about this time. at Andy Edwards’ place over on the plateau.
A little off-season practice had been good to me the day before, but the dancing had not. From the open roping and a little five-head match, I weighed about eight hundred dollars heavier — which didn’t do much for my terminal swagger.
We were all sitting around, roping a bale of hay and talking horses, especially a sweet little bay mare Andy had. I thought maybe I couldn’t live without her — this was a familiar feeling that strangely recurred every time I ran across a good horse for sale.
My vision was slowly returning to normal, and my loop was beginning to crackle again as I listened to one of Smooth’s filly stories. We called Smooth “Smooth” because that was the best way to describe his grin. He suffered from an extreme lack of teeth which had been periodically removed by fists, feet, and despairing dentists.
Guys were beginning to head for their horses, and I was considering going after mine to see what this particular afternoon would bring. A muffled boom interrupted the afternoon peace, and we looked into the distance to see a puff of dust slowly become an ancient Chevrolet pickup, rattling and backfiring every time it caught a gear, towing a little one-horse Miley of similar vintage and condition. Brake shoes screamed and the old Chevy shuddered to a stop marked by a final explosion.
We stared, and Smooth giggled a little. A man is a battered and sweat-stained silverbelly stepped out and shuffled over. I pinpointed his age at exactly somewhere between 40 and 80. He wore a faded Levi’s jacket and looked through a pair of equally faded blue eyes. I guess they both had seen a lot of use. His mustache was grizzled and gray-flecked, and his Levi’s were worn a little too short for Marlboro ads.
“This ropin’ open to anybody?”
“Sure, Pop. Pay the lady with the book,” Andy pointed toward the arena.
I was riding a big sorrel horse at the time. He was an athlete, but a little hotheaded — we made a good pair. We loped by the gate, and there the old man sat on a blue horse with more gray around his muzzle than the old man had. The pony stood on three legs with his head down and eyes closed. He was rough and long-haired with a big winter-grass belly bulging behind his girth.
We warmed up, built and rebuilt our loops, and scored our horses as someone rattled the gate. The old man hadn’t moved a muscle, and his pony was now leaning on the arena fence.
We were roping a good, even set of black cattle that would sure snuff in your pocket. There were always some good ropers at Andy’s, and a man needed to be nine even on these snot slingers.
I always rode a stout horse with plenty of stop, and this sorrel was no exception.
My first calf laid well, but I had trouble getting him up. I was happy with a ten, which led the first go. The old-timer roped last and must have seen all the calves roped if he hadn’t been asleep. He legged ol’ Blue into a slow lope around a little circle and pointed him toward the box. The horse assumed his natural three-legged stance, promptly dropped his head, and, I could have sworn, closed his eyes.
The old man nodded, the calf left, and the blue horse regained consciousness in the same instant. They ran out there about five hops, and the old man snaked a lazy little loop out over Blue’s ear, got off left like old-timers do, shuffled down the rope, and tied his calf — that blue horse sittin’ back hard. The old man didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry, and I forgot to pay attention to the time.
I roped as well that afternoon as I ever would. I had to travel a long way to get beat in those days, and I expected to be sorting out some new money for my day’s work.
They announced the times and places, and dog my sakes if that old-timer and that sleepy blue horse didn’t bump me out! I rode directly to the timer’s table to notify him about his mistake, but there it was in black and white and electronically calculated to the boot. Beat by .04 of a second on the average, but still beat. And beat by a fat old man riding a big blue packinghouse bag of horse meat!
Of course, my pride felt like it had been done some kind of rare and unspeakable indignation. I sauntered over to where the old man was picking up his check and winked at the boys standing around before I said, “Pretty fancy ropin’, Pop.”
“Thankee.”
“Where you from?”
“Round about.”
“Don’t suppose you do any match ropin’?” I pried.
“Time to time.” He laughed a long black stream of juice over his shoulder.
“I guess when you were younger.”
His eyes sparkled a little, “I tell you what I’m gonna do young feller. I’ll match you eight head, take a little odds, and use my left hand for this here check.”
My pride began to scream again. Hell, I was the one who ought to be using my left hand. But greed began to stir as I thought what a nice pile that check would make coupled with my second-place winnings.
“What kind of odds?” I asked cautiously.
“Two to one.”
“You sure eight head’s not too many for ol’ Blue there?”
He grinned and we mounted up.
I could hardly believe my good fortune. It wasn’t every day somebody offered to give me $1,000 or so.
I roped first and already had figured that all I had to do was catch, so I loped out there, took my time, and was about 15 on my first calf.
The old man and that round horse exploded from the box. That lazy loop had suddenly become a lightning bolt, and if he was smooth before, he was now plumb fast. It took me four calves to realize that the old codger was left-handed to begin with!
I had spotted him a full five seconds on the first run, and on the second he just plain beat me. I found myself down seven seconds after just two calves, so I pulled my hat down and went to roping. I threw long and left early, took a wrap and a half — anything I could do to cheat the clock. When the dust finally settled, I had put together a mostly unbelievable stretch of runs to make up the seven seconds and a little more.
The old man had one calf left and would have to be fast — a full second faster than anything he’d tied today.
I sat with my leg wrapped around the horn and breathed a little easier, but not much. As he headed that old blue horse toward the box, he reached around and rapped him a good one on the butt. “Wake up, Blue,” he said. For the first time that pony’s ears came up, and he actually went into the box with his eyes open.
The sad story of it was, the old man was 8.9 — just fast enough to take my money — and it didn’t seem to bother him a bit.
As Andy and Smooth and I stood there watching that old rattletrap become a puff of dust again, I remembered something my Daddy told me before I got too old and wise to listen.
“Son, no matter how tough or fast or smart a man gets to thinkin’ he is, there’s always somebody just around the corner who’s a little more. And it ain’t always just who you’d expect, neither.”
This article was originally published in the November 1986 issue of Western Horseman. This article was written by Kirk Stowers and illustrated by Bill Culbertson.
Great story and a true statement. I for one hope that was a true story. I hope it continues to play out throughout time to remind us of where we come from.