Old Nig

 

         We had many horses on the ranch while I was growing up.  There was Crabapple, Red Rocket, Blaze, Socks, Blackie, and Shithead.  My favorite, however, has always been Old Nig.

         I won’t go into details about Old Nig’s name.  It would be politically incorrect.  Sufficient to say, the horse was a large, black horse.  He was a Morgan breed, known for their ability to work hard for long periods of time.  You could ride him all day, and he still had enough energy to drag one hundred calves to the branding fire.

         He was also the perfect horse for kid cowboys and cowboys who fell off horses.  He had a better understanding of what was going on than most cowboys who rode him.  He was the definition of a horse that had “cow sense”.

         He was the hardest worker on our ranch until the day he died.  Dad was riding him when his heart gave out.  He died doing what he loved doing.  Dad had to walk back to the truck.

         My fondest memory of Old Nig was on a long roundup at the Hogan Pasture.  We had gathered cattle to the Salt Well and pushed them around the eastern circle of the pasture to the Well on the Dike.  There, we met another group of cowboys and cattle from the western circle of the large pasture.  After eating lunch, we bunched up the cattle for the ride back to the Hogan, the main headquarters of the North Ranch. I made it about a half mile before I started getting sick.  I had lost my hat earlier and developed a killer migraine from heat stroke.

         Dad helped me back to the truck, tied up the horse, and left me with instructions.  When I felt better, I was to unsaddle the horse, load him in the trailer, and drive the whole kit and caboodle back to the Hogan.  After a lot of water and a nap in the air-conditioned truck, I got out to take care of Old Nig.  He was not too happy.  I stripped the saddle off his back, tied the reins loosely around his neck and tried to load him in the trailer.  Nig had other plans.  He reared back, whipped his neck and ran away.  Before I could think, he was running after the herd, full tilt.  I was dead.  That horse would mess everything up, and I would be grounded for life.

         I contemplated stealing the truck and heading to Mexico, but then I remembered I was only 13.  Resigned to my fate, I drove to the Hogan to wait for my punishment.

         It never came.  When the rest of the real cowboys came near the Hogan, there was Old Nig doing what he loved best.  He had no rider, no sleepy kid on his back, but he was pushing the cattle along with incredible ease and skill learned through years of practice.  Old Nig was the best cowboy we had on the ranch.  I sure miss that old horse.