They Were Salty

Uncle Mac Robinson had been a territorial ranger. Six-foot four without his high-heeled boots, Uncle Mac was something to look at on a horse or on the ground. While Mac had been a cowboy most all his life, he was often mistaken for a peace officer. When Mac hired out one day as a cowhand in Wilcox, the owner drew a map in the dust to show Mac where his outfit was working, and Uncle Mac set out at daybreak.

About an hour before sundown a cowpuncher threw in with Uncle Mac. Mac had never met the waddie, but he knew from the brand on the horse that the puncher was working for the outfit where he was headed. Mac asked where the outfit was camped. But when he didn’t say he was going to work, the waddie immediately pegged him for an officer. They rode for a time together and finally the puncher cut from him.

“Got to wrangle some horses,” he said. But before he left he pointed to the cottonwoods where the camp was located. “See ya in camp,” said the waddie.

When Uncle Mac rode in there were saddles and gear about the camp for all of 20 riders. The meal was ready and the cook had prepared supper for more than 20 men, but the cook was the only man in sight when Uncle Mac rode up. And it so happened the cook and Mac were old friends.

“Let ’em stay out awhile,” said Uncle Mac, who always liked his fun.

The cook enjoyed it too; but when he yelled, “Come an’ get it,” it was a sheepish looking bunch of cow hands who gathered at the pots. It seems this waddie Uncle Mac had met had ridden on ahead and said that an officer was on his way to camp, and not knowing which man was wanted the whole outfit took to the brush.

Many of the old time Arizona cow men were Southerners and had fought in the Confederate Army. There was one, known as “Colonel,” whose aversion for Yankees was really a phobia with him. When the Colonel came to town he always went on a bender, and when the Colonel went on a bender not only the town but the whole countryside knew it, too. Sometimes it was hard to get the Colonel out of town and back to his ranch. But they finally found a formula that never failed to work.

“Colonel,” a cowboy would say, “I stopped at your ranch two days ago; there was some Yankees camped in the yard an’ they wouldn’t leave the place!” The Colonel wouldn’t even finish his drink; he’d rush to the corral and get his horse, and fog it into The Valley. Fortunately, for all concerned, the Colonel never met any Yankees who were cluttering up his place.

There was one old Confederate veteran we all enjoyed, he liked to play freeze-out with the cowboys for drinks. And Uncle Billy, which wasn’t his name, wasn’t above cheating a little, either. We never minded, though, for some time during the game a cowboy would say: “You was in the army, wasn’t you, Uncle Billy?” And Uncle Billy’s reply was always worth the pots he stole.

“You’re damn right I was in the army-cavalry, too!” he’d say. “I was gone four years an’ when I come home Little Billy was two years old.”

Ol’ Fitzhugh always reminded me of a sidewinder-he never rattled before he struck. He was one of those waspy little men who are always on the sting. Ol’ Fitzhugh had killed several men over a period of years; but on one occasion he killed the wrong man, by mistake, and he was sentenced to four years in the old territorial prison at Yuma. With the terrible heat, “TB,” and other diseases rampant, four years usually meant a death sentence in those days. But Fitzhugh, who was tough as a boot, did it “breezing,” as the clockers say today. And when his citizenship was restored to him, he was more than a little proud. Fact is, he willed his pardon to the first grandchild who came.

“Fitzhugh,” said a friend of Ol’ Fitzhugh and his wife one day, “doesn’t your conscience ever bother you?”

“No ma’am,” Ol’ Fitzhugh replied. “I never killed any man who didn’t need it; an’ that feller I killed by mistake–I found out later he needed killin’, too.”

Ol’ Fitzhugh had one of the first ranches on Salt river. If he was a friend, he went whole-hog and let the tail go with the hide. And the fact that I don’t give his real name is because I don’t want any of his offspring to underestimate a man who was really salty.