The Brazos River winds its way through the stoic rock cliffs a mile east of the small village of Glenrose, Texas, its waters glinting like scattered stars as the sun throws its golden light upon the white limestone bedrock beneath the water. In the tranquil shallows and deeper pools, hues of emerald and azure spiral together, mirroring the darting fish that traverse the hidden world below. Eagles and Hawks prowl the sky above, capturing the fish that swim too close to the surface. Towering Oak, Pecan, and Elm trees stand as steadfast guardians along the banks, their roots deep in the fertile soil, while just beyond, the land erupts in a profusion of wildflowers, a testament to the beauty and resilience of this little patch of earth. This is the land that Henry’s family chose as their homestead.
In the shadows of the towering hills, wide stretches of grasslands unfold, a realm where cattle and deer roam free, finding solace in the abundance that the land offers. Here, the grass is plentiful, and competition is not considered. The earth yields enough to sustain all who seek its bounty. Mesquite trees stand in tight groves, their gnarled limbs ready to provide the firewood for warmth and light for the ranch house. Henry thanks God every day that his family chose this little slice of Heaven so many decades ago, when Texas was newly freed from Mexico and formed into a Republic. His family and the Comanches made friends early on, sharing the bounty of the land and feeding the tribe with a beef or two when needed. It was a choice of peace over bloodshed and battle.
Henry’s two boys left the ranch years ago. His youngest works as a deputy in Fort Worth, an honorable but dangerous profession. His oldest boy is a gambler and a scoundrel, and haunts the saloons and gambling halls of New Orleans and Houston, making a shady wage and living an abhorrent lifestyle. Abigail, his wife, pines for a reunion with her boys, but they have been without her loving touch for many years. She is old, sick, and frail, and Henry fears each day might be her last, so he doesn’t travel far from the house and checks on her often during the workday. Henry is older than her, and he’s no spring chicken. His days of ranching and sitting in a saddle will be ending soon.
Cattle are made for roaming; it’s their inherent nature. Cowboys are made for finding and securing the unruly bovines; it’s a circle game played out daily. Henry is missing twelve, maybe thirteen, and two calves, all Longhorns. He knows they are drawn to the river; they smell the wetness and know that the grass is sweetest near the banks, and the spreading Oaks offer a safe respite when night comes. He sent his ranch hand West to search, but he knew they likely headed East to the river.
Henry picks up the cattle tracks in the soft sandy soil, heading to the river. He follows for a few miles to the West bank of the Brazos. There, they crossed in water no more than a foot deep, but swift enough to take a man off his feet. Across the river, maybe thirty yards, he sees their exit up a steep incline next to a sharp cliff that drops off to the right, large rocks scattered along the bank below, and trapped broken tree trunks and limbs reside there among the stones. The trees are thick on the left, so there is no option but the one the cattle took. Henry gives them credit for being smart enough to figure it out. They cross with no effort. Witherspoon, his old horse, knows about as much as a ranch horse could learn. Henry considers him smarter than many of the men he knows. They start up the incline, which is steeper than it appeared from the other bank. Witherspoon struggles, slipping on the soft earth and gravel, and rolls to the right. Henry knows they are falling, and it won’t be a soft one. He grabs the saddle horn and braces for the impact as they fall backwards off the cliff.
When Henry opens his eyes, the sky looks a color of blue he is not familiar with. Deep Azure, not the familiar soft blue. He is flat on his back, lying atop stones. He doesn’t feel pain and figures he escaped injury. Witherspoon, his horse, grazes near the face of the cliff they fell from; he appears uninjured as well. He raises himself up on his elbows. From the left side, a dog approaches, tail wagging. Henry is shocked; it’s his cow dog, Buster, gone for three months now. Henry was sure a pack of coyotes got him, but here he is, now licking his face in between joyful whines. Abigail will be pleased as punch to see Buster back home. She mourned for weeks, assuming he had passed.
Witherspoon is in good shape, not a scratch on him, so he mounts, and Buster leads the way up the incline. This time, it’s an easy climb, and they continue down the path, Buster following the tracks and stopping ever so often to look back and bark to let Henry know the way.
The three come upon a man leaning on a broken gate. The wood of the gate is in poor shape. The man is dressed in city clothes, sharp and clean, boots shined and a snazzy derby perched on his head. Henry has been in these parts many times and doesn’t remember this place.
The man motions his hand and says, ” Howdy neighbor, what brings you to these parts?
” Looking for some strays that crossed the river maybe yesterday or the day before, you seen them” Henry says. Buster sits on his bollocks, ears low, hair on his back up: it’s clear this is not a nice fellow. Henry trusts his dog’s instincts, which are always right.
” Had some strays here a few days ago, just walked right in the gate and up to the main house, you’re welcome to come and see if they are yours. I’ve got some good corn liquor if you’d like a jolt, but the dog has to stay at the gate, no dogs allowed on this spread, they cause too much trouble,” says the man with a broad, fake smile. Buster lowers his body and snarls, emitting a low growl.
Henry looks at the entrance, the tracks must be at least a few weeks old, and the rain has almost vanished them. He says,” No thanks, my dog has picked up their scent and tracks, and they lead on up the road, so we’ll be moseying along.”
” Suit yourself, neighbor, if you don’t find them, you can come to the main house, but the dog isn’t welcome.” The man turns and leaves as Henry moves Witherspoon along the tracks that Buster has picked up.
A few miles down the road, Henry comes upon another gate. A young woman is replacing the hinges. She has a toolbox and has clearly been working hard. Her clothes are a bit dirty, her boots are worn, and her straw hat has seen better days. Without hesitation, Buster goes to her and she bends down and gives him a hug, he whines and licks her face.
She puts down her tool and says, ” Bet you’re looking for those Longhorns that came by this morning, twelve of them, with two calves. They walked right in the gate and up to the barn. I put them in a holding pen. I figured someone would come looking. Why don’t you and your cow dog follow me up to the barn, and I’ll give ya’ll a cool drink of water, and Cookie might have a biscuit or two left from breakfast if you’re hungry. Why don’t you dismount and walk with me up to the main house?”
Henry and Buster walk beside her, Witherspoon in tow. The road is well kept, the trees lining the road are healthy and green, and some are bursting with fruit, Apples, Pears, Peaches, Mulberries, and the wild flowers are as abundant and colorful as he has ever seen. In the distance he sees the main house. It’s a sprawling place, maybe three or four stories, painted white and trimmed in gold. There are dozens of folks sitting in chairs under the covered porch. Dogs and children play on the lawn. Buster takes off down the road to join in with them.
The young woman takes off her leather gloves, offers a hand to Henry, and says, ” Howdy, my name is Angela. This ain’t my place, it belongs to my Father. You must be Henry and your cow dog must be Buster, right?”
Henry shakes her hand. Her face is beaming, glowing in the afternoon light. Bright blue eyes, silky brown hair, and the whitest teeth he’s ever seen on a person. He says, ” Angela, how do you know my name? I don’t recall telling you yet. I can’t stay long. I’ll collect my strays and need to head back. My wife is sickly, and I’ve been gone too long as it is. I worry about her, and she doesn’t need the misery of thinking something happened to me.”
Angela moves closer to Henry and takes his hand in hers as they stroll down the road. She says, ” Henry, we’ve been expecting you, Witherspoon, and Buster for a while now, and don’t worry too much about Abigail, she’ll be along shortly. Ain’t this place just a slice of Heaven.”
Notes From The Cactus Patch 