My relationship with horses coincides closely with my short, but memorable career in the "cattle biddness". In the early '80s, I moved to Young Co. Texas to run a gun shop at the behest of a good friend, and member of one of Young County's oldest ranching families. Ittook little time to realize that this move would naturally evolve into helping, and then joining this friend in his ranching endeavors.

Now a little background is in order. J.M. "Hap" Graham was in his 80's when I moved there. He was my friend's father, and the "Jeffe" of the Graham operation. Hap had a long standing tradition that I'm sure had been in the family for decades, passed from father to son. By the time this tradition reached my friend Charles Graham, it had evolved into "Never give over $100 for a horse!" I'm sure the only thing that had changed over time was the amount, which probably originated at not a dime over $10.

The horse traders of Young Co. had known of this tradition for as long as it had been around.

As any horse breeder knows, there are horses that are born bad, and there are horses that "go bad" due to any number of circumstances. These are horses that simply cannot be trained to operate around humans. Until the Grahams settled there, the only future for such horses was the rendering plant, or a humanely placed bullet. The breeders quickly realized the potential of the Graham horse buying tradition, being after all, horse traders. At the beginning of my ranching career, the going price at the rendering plant for a "soap" horse was aprox. $65. However, such a horse, especially if he was a fine looking young horse, would probably fetch $85, even $90 out at the Graham place. It took a lot of serious negotiations for that kind of money, but after all, it was under the $100 limit.

In retrospect, I can only marvel at the unique qualities of the Graham remuda. I suspect a lot of good could have been done inviting colleges out to study just what can be mentally wrong with horses. You name it, the Graham family horses had it. But I was young, green as grass, and just didn't know any better.

One fine spring day, Charlie arrived at my place with "my" horse. It was a smallish young gelding, brown, with black feet. A very attractive horse actually. It didn't click then, but had I seen that look in the eye of one of my criminals, I would have been slapping for my sixgun without hesitation. Charlie said the horse was "a little green", and needed to be worked a bit. 

We spent the next few weeks idling up and down the road in the old pickup with a hysterical horse on the end of a rope strung out behind, and trying his best to yank the bumper off the truck. This was called "bridle breaking", or "breaking to lead". Eventually, the horse gave in, or decided that there would be another day for payback. We spent the spring "training" this horse, and by summer, he was my working mount. What did I know? After all, I was now a working cowboy!

The summer was relatively uneventful, I guess, since I have no idea how a normal summer on horseback is spent. The worst remaining quirk this horse had was a terminal inclination to "hunt boogers". This is the habit of reacting violently if startled by darting lizards, rabbits, or, God forbid, a covey of quail. The reactions ranged from a blazingly quick lane change, to a full blown rodeo, bucking off into the pasture accompanied by the delighted "yeehawws!" of Charlie fading quickly in the background. To my credit, I guess, I was seldom thrown by such antics. Years of gun work had developed healthy reflexes, and I always knew that the horse could see the ground ahead of him much better than I could, so I was always ready. There was no such thing as a relaxing ride.

As summer passed, I guess I got cocky, or at least complacent. The horse seemed to be taming down, and my riding skills improved. The majority of the riding time was now calm, and uneventful. Shoot, this ol' horse was going to pan out after all. One Saturday, a friend was visiting from Ft. Worth. He was born, and raised in Graham, and had done his share of riding before going off to seek fame, and fortune as a movie stuntman. He knew western movies, he knew horses, and he knew stunt work. He expressed a desire to ride a bit, and I needed to go see Charlie across the road for something, so I decided to saddle the horse, ride over to Charlie's place, and return and give the horse over to my friend. I saddled the horse without incident, strapped on my trusty 4 3/4" Ruger BH in it's western belt rig, and thinking what a nice day, booted the stirrup, and swung into the saddle.

Here is the sequence of events as I remember them. As my rear hit the saddle, I went blind. The next thing I saw, my word as a gentleman, was the world from some really amazing height that just wasn't supposed to be like that 'cause it was much higher than a horse's back. I knew I was falling, and I had no idea where my feet were, but I was in no condition to do anything about these facts anyway. I hit the ground like a 200 lb sack of flour, right side first. 

The Ruger's holster had kicked out at an angle, and when it hit the ground, it drove the butt of the Ruger so far into my side, that I swear I could see it popped out the other one. My head whipsawed into the bare, hard-pan clay with an ugly thud. I was clearly dying in a great cloud of dust, but drawing a breath, any breath of any kind was my overriding concern. After some fashion of an eternity, tiny little baby breaths began squeaking their way into my lungs. I began to have conscious thought again. These thoughts became dominated by a burning desire to locate the Ruger, locate the horse, and empty the contents of the former into the vital areas of the latter. I quickly realized that this was unlikely, as I was barely breathing, and totally paralyzed. As my head began to clear, I became aware of my friend poking around, prodding, lifting arms, and legs, and accessing the damage. He knew I wasn't seriously hurt long before I did, because from in here, I felt like fresh road-kill.

After some time had passed, my breath returned, and I sat up, seemingly intact except for a blazing pain in my side. I blew for a minute, and then had my friend help me stand up. The horse was down by the corral, 50 ft. away, the Ruger was on the ground at my feet. My friend read my mind, and quickly snatched up the Ruger, and stuck it in his belt. I hadn't heard him from the ringing in my ears, but from the moment he knew I wasn't bad hurt, my friend had begun to rave excitedly about how he had never seen such a spectacular "fall" in all his years of movies, horses, or stunt work. The altitude, the body position, the crash, the dust, all had combined to provide him with a spectacle such as he had never seen. He was genuinely crushed that he had not had the good fortune of having his camcorder with him. I found it momentarily difficult to share in the entertainment value of my experience, but did marvel at the well known compassionate nature of West Texas natives. 

I asked him what had happened initially, and he said his back was turned. He heard a "whuff", and a snort, and spun around just in time to see me at the apogee of my launch. I dusted myself off as best as I could, winced from the pain, and eyed the horse. My friend quickly offered to put away the horse, and suggested I go sit on the porch. He knew I had more guns, and he knew they weren't far away. He went off muttering about replays in slow motion.

The only lasting effect of the event was a many-colored bruise that ran from just under my ribs, to below my hip, and the passing of blood for a few days. This is not quite true, because the other lasting effect was my blood oath to never mount another horse. I never knew what the horse had done to launch me so high, and so quickly after barely touching the saddle, but I didn't really care. I had had my share of dings, dents, ass-whippings, and other mishaps over the years, but nothing to compare with the sheer agony of that crash. Charlie got an earfull the next day, and he sensed that I wasn't kidding one bit. He agreed that all future ranching activates involving me could probably be done just as well from a pick-up, or on foot, and hang the tradition.

I continued to help Charlie as I could, and even went on to partner up with him on our own cow/calf operation that did pretty well, but I never mounted another horse. The oil boom busted, and the gun store along with it. I eventually moved back to Ft. Worth, and in 1986, Charlie dropped dead of a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. Hap was a widower, and died a few years later. The entire Graham Ranch reverted to Charlie's only sister who lived in Florida, and couldn't have cared less. She sold it all to other ranchers, and just like that, a century of family ranching was gone. 

I still have a few friends in Graham, and have made a few forays out there to look over the old place. My little line shack has become a deer camp, but little else has changed. Me, I'm a good bit older, a great deal wiser, and still have not mounted a horse. 

In retrospect, the above experiences reflect on the buying habits of the Grahams more that they reflect as an indictment of horses, and that's only fair. Obviously, people spend years enjoying good horses in all kinds of pursuits. But I am far removed from any need of them, and feel no temptation to change that. Such a crash would probably kill me today, and being killed would again deny me the satisfaction of shooting the dang horse.