C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Robert and Constance Milto allowed their daughter to sleep though they were up with first light. Branding five or six hundred calves demanded considerable labour in preparation as well as the actual chore. Connie Milto would not be helping at the corrals this day as she was preparing a huge meal to feed the army of volunteers who would be assisting the rancher. The supper had become a community event. More than a hundred and fifty helpers, spouses, girlfriends and bystanders came for the 'entertainment' in previous years and that was a lot of mouths to feed. Robert Milto contracted Stan Olson, a heavy-set Norwegian friend of Sven's, whose forte was the fabulous beef pit-barbecue. Stan would share quarters in Sven's bunkhouse for a day or two leading up to the branding and during that time he would dig a deep pit and burn about two truck loads of wood in it. Most of the wood came from old fence posts, broken corral timbers and trim from the maple lane leading into the ranch yard; when this had burned to a mass of glowing red hot coals, Stan would place large roasts of seasoned beef, wrapped securely in wet cheese cloth and then tin foil, directly upon the coals. He left ample spacing between packets and attached long wires to facilitate removal of the hot barbecued bundles later. The chef then filled the hole with dirt and banked it up, leaving the beef to cook in its underground oven.
Stan Olson had mastered the art of the pit-barbecue and, though he steadfastly refused to share his spice recipe, he welcomed the compliments bestowed upon him. At 5' 7” and 225 pounds, the Scandinavian obviously enjoyed his own culinary skills and certainly wasn't opposed to washing it down with a few beers if occasion presented itself.
Connie Milto was usually assisted in the kitchen by Myrna Yeast and at least one of her daughters. This year Claudette St. Jacques had been persuaded to come and help as well. Mrs. Milto felt that time away from the grieving lady's empty, memory-haunted house might detract from the sorrow, at least temporarily.
When the Miltos first arrived in the Stockton-Prairie Hills district, people were cautious about welcoming the newcomers. Their apparent wealth made local folks envious or nervous and, in the extreme, hostile. The new family worked very hard to overcome the gap. Near neighbours such as Pete Liscombe, the Yeast's, and Ben and Lou Collins soon spread the word that the Miltos were good solid 'folks' and it was Myrna Yeast who saved Connie Milto from a near disaster on the occasion of their first branding five years previous:
The pit-barbecue for a large branding operation was not entirely new to the area; Robert Milto followed example by hiring Stan Olson; what better method of attracting volunteers than providing free victuals? The date had been set and preparations for the round up were in order. It was a Wednesday afternoon, the day before the herd gather and two days ahead of the branding, when Connie visited Myrna Yeast to request assistance with the kitchen chores. Mrs. Yeast advised, “You'll have a lot of roast beef left over from the barbecue, Connie, if you are planning for Friday.”
Mrs. Milto was completely mystified by this statement and said as much.
“Half this community belongs to the Roman Catholic faith,” Myrna explained. “Catholics can't eat meat on Friday.”
The Miltos quickly moved the branding ahead one day.
In 1966, the rules changed and, excepting a Hindu high school teacher in Stockton, a vegetarian, everyone could eat beef seven days a week. Robert Milto predicted the decision would boost the beef industry.
This year Myrna Yeast had commenced preparations at home, making twenty five pounds of her locally famous potato salad and various desserts. Claudette St. Jacques offered to bake several dozen buns to bring along on branding day and the three ladies planned to create the remaining food complement for Stan Olsen's barbecued beef in the spacious kitchen of the Milto ranch house. Connie Milto had purchased disposable paper plates to alleviate a portion of the post feast cleaning duties.
The morning of the branding Robert Milto, Sven Larson and Stan Olsen turned to their duties following an early breakfast in the main house. Sven often took his meals with the Miltos and was treated as one of the family; Stan Olsen was naturally shown the typical western hospitality of a guest. The barbecue chef went about his chores, setting up tables and benches for an outdoor feast with a back-up plan to relocate to an emptied machine shed if a sudden thunder shower should come up. Meanwhile, Sven and Robert assembled various paraphernalia for the upcoming job.
The equipment and extra firewood were loaded in the pickup and hauled out to the holding corrals. Horses were fed and watered and the wood was stacked by a shallow fire pit which the two men excavated for the occasion. Dozens of previous fires had left the soil under the new layer of drifted sand a baked and blackened testimony to years of branding at this exact location.
“Voss many hot irons come out of that forge,” Sven said as the two men placed an adequate supply of dry wood in the depression. A steel frame, which Sven had manufactured in the machine shop, was installed near the edge of the pit. Its purpose was to hold up the long handles so the wielders of the branding irons, or 'iron men' would have ease of access to the red hot tools. The irons were rotated to ensure that a fresh one would always be hot. The Milto brand required two applications consisting of a large M slightly above a curved bar: the “Rocking M.”
Two vehicles arrived moments apart as first Milt and Ben Collins pulled up to the fire pit in the Miltos' four wheel drive followed by Lou Collins and Leonard Yeast in Lou's truck. Chase had been left behind. Greetings were exchanged and the symbolic thermos of coffee produced.
“Did you Norvegians empty a beer keg last night?” Ben mimicked the hired hand.
“No beer for Sven, I voss out looking for lost kids past my bed time.”
“So, Stan had all the beer to himself?”
“I t'ink Stan had some beers, jah.”
“You'll catch up tonight maybe?” Ben goaded.
Milt noticed a twinkle in the hired man's eyes and his sun wrinkled and deeply tanned face may have turned a shade darker but he quickly hid behind the coffee mug and said nothing.
“Your pony is moving slow this morning; looks like stiffness in his front end, Ben,” Robert Milto said. “You may not want to use him too much today.”
Ben took this news with grave concern for the saddle horse was to be used for roping calves this day.
Leonard Yeast said, “I heard you and Milt was a couple of danged good veterinarians. You can fix him up, I expect.”
The group made their way to the horse corral. Ben examined Scoundrel closely as Milt stood near. “He's sore all right,” Ben admitted. “Maybe just stiff though. I'll work him on the round-up this morning and if he's off I'll have to use Dad's horse for ropin.”
Horses were saddled and the riders rode together as they made their way around the sixty acre holding pasture to the far side of the herd. Another beautiful day graced the prairie landscape as the sun climbed higher and hotter. Wildlife had long since retired to the shaded areas and the cattle grazed peacefully on the tough prairie wool of the small, treeless pasture. Several of the nearer cattle watched with mild interest as the horsemen trotted past.
Robert Milto stood tall in his stirrups and said, “Well, I'll be damned!” He urged his horse forward; the others followed suit. Soon all could see the cause of the big rancher's surprise. On the opposite side of the fence, looking baleful as a lost puppy, stood the Charolais bull Ben and Milt had ministered to late last night.
Leonard Yeast said, “By God! That's a dang tough bull to come this far on a game leg, it must be two, three mile back to that hidden mill.”
“A rough two or three miles,” Ben said.
Robert Milto dismounted and opened the gate that had finally thwarted the bull in his crippled trek down the prairie trail in a valiant attempt to rejoin the herd. Without urging, the animal limped through the opening and walked past the riders.
“He'll be wantin' to get over to that mill, I'll bet,” said Lou Collins.
Milt offered to follow the Charolais to ensure no further harm came from other bulls in the field; she would allow the beast a good drink then pen him out of the way of the morning round-up. The others started gathering the herd.
In a short time the cattle were brought in from the holding field and hazed into the large corral complex. Sorting commenced. The bulls were cut out from the bunch early and then the more difficult process of separating cows from their calves began. Ben's horse proved to be too sore from the arduous round-up of the day before. The lad traded horses with his father and Lou turned the injured Scoundrel loose in the horse corral. Milt rode Whiskey, who was learning the cutting business, but he wasn't in the same league as either of the veteran Collins mounts. Robert Milto kept the cows that had already been cut out from breaking back to rejoin their calves. Sven and Leonard handled the necessary gates.
Dust spiralled up in the windless morning air while separated cows and calves bellowed and bawled incessantly. Ben recognized the troublesome Charolais-cross that wore his horse down the day before. The crazed bovine faced the rider, head low, its mouth open; a roar to drown out the entire herd thundered from its core and dirt clods filled the air as she pawed the dry earth. Milt noted the angry beast's intention and, shouting a warning to Ben, the girl slapped heels to Whiskey's flanks and raced across the enclosure to broadside the cow, thwarting an attack on Ben and his horse. The big buckskin's shoulder struck solidly on the near hind quarter, spinning the bovine one hundred and eighty degrees, leaving it pointed towards Robert Milto and the sorted cows. Whiskey left a few cents change on a dime and Milt desperately grabbed the saddle horn as he turned and caught the maddened Charolais-cross again and pushed her toward the gate. Milt regained her seat and yelled, “Lift her out of there, Chase!” Though the collie was seven miles away, the cow seemed to remember the phrase as she had heard it so often the day before. Head low, she bellowed again, bolted past a laughing Robert Milto and charged out into the holding field.
Sorting went smoothly and quickly; soon all the calves were separated and penned in a large corral. The cattlemen left a half dozen older cows in with the calves to help keep them settled down.
Cinches were loosened and the horses given a sparing drink. Milt climbed in the back of the pickup she and Ben had travelled to the corrals in this morning and retrieved the lunch box. Using the tailgate as a table, the workers gathered round for food and refreshments. The cacophony of the cattle became slightly muted as the human ears adjusted and the company conversed in near normal tones.
“Your horse didn't limber up for you, Ben?” Leonard Yeast asked.
“No, he's pretty stiff and really favouring that right front shoulder. He must have hurt it when we were trying to bring in that miserable Charolais-cross.”
Lou said, “I seen Whiskey fetched her a good thumping today.”
“That cow won't be on the place come winter time, I'll bet.” said Robert Milto.
Ben laughed, “You ought to know.”
“I won't forget either,” Milt said. “She's tagged B324.”
“We'll bring out a stock trailer and haul your horse and that crippled bull home tomorrow,” Robert said. “It'll be a slow trip out of here loaded, but neither animal is able to walk that far.”
“Yeah, we'll trail the rest of these knotheads home tomorrow, too,” Lou Collins put in.
“We really appreciate all the help you fellows are giving us, especially when it's getting so close to haying time. I know you could be busy at home,” Robert Milto said.
“Don't mention it,” Leonard Yeast shrugged. “That's what neighbours is for.”
Dust on the trail announced the arrival of the first of a long string of vehicles transporting the branding helpers.
“Time to fire up the forge, jah?” Sven asked of the rancher. Milto nodded his approval.
The hired hand dumped a healthy portion of a gasoline-used oil mixture over the wood in the pit, then, ensuring everyone was standing clear, struck a wooden match with his thumbnail and tossed it low in the pit. The gas fumes caught instantly and with a loud 'whoosh' the fire took hold. Flames licked at the dry logs and black smoke from the used oil billowed into the sky in an inky cloud. No breeze deflected the smoke as it rose straight up.
Danny Reid, along with Shaun and Dennis Miller, were in the first vehicle that drove up to the branding arena and Ben said, “I figgered a telephone guy might be able to read those smoke signals.”
Dennis Miller said, “Yeah, We thought they were beer clouds.”
As the flames dropped down to a more approachable level, Leonard and Sven placed the branding irons in the rapidly growing bed of coals. Robert Milto and Lou Collins lifted the last of the gear out of the pickup while Milt hastily stowed the remainder of their lunch.
“We stopped by the yard and loaded up that ice cooler unit in Len's pickup,” Danny told the rancher. This chore had been prearranged as Robert had decided to leave the ice bags in the electric freezer at the ranch house as long as possible. He thought the cooler contents would not survive a full day in the hot prairie sun.
“Thanks, Danny,” Robert said.
“Priority one: keep the brew cool.”
More vehicles pulled up and Ralph Osborne, the auctioneer, along with Kent Miller, oldest of the Miller brothers, drove in, towing a small double wide stock trailer. As Ralph parked on a level area a view from the rear showed two saddled horses standing side by side in the trailer.
As Ben and Milt strolled over to help unload the horses a second trailer unit arrived with a single horse in it. The new arrival parked beside the auctioneer's vehicle and Milt recognized the driver: Stockton veterinarian, Stewart Rigby. The vet enjoyed roping calves for the local branding events and was always willing to help the Miltos. Naturally, due to the size of their herd, they were preferred customers at his veterinary practice.
Two surprise guests also climbed out of 'Doc' Rigby's truck: Stockton's family physician Dr. O'Brien and a stranger; a tall young lad whom Milt guessed to be around her age, handsome in a pale sort of way. His flashy garb ?a Hollywood misconception for a low budget western movie? instantly drew everyone's attention: blue jeans, the preferred choice for men's pants anywhere in the west, but these were a brand new, off-the-shelf, starch stiff pair, somewhat dressy for the occasion and no one would dream of donning a pair of 'Cowboy Kings' that hadn't first received at least one workout in the wringer washing machine; a fancy, tooled leather belt with a gaudy buckle the size of a “Chevy hub cap” (Ben Collins's description) circled the slim waist to hold up the new jeans which were tucked into a fancy stitched pair of high-top, high-heeled cowboy boots. These were in turn equipped with gaudy metal toe caps and little spurs with useless decorative rowels; a bright red cotton shirt with white satin fringe across the chest and shoulders dazzled the eyes of the onlookers. The lad's dark curly hair was mostly concealed by a black felt 'cowboy' hat which he wore tilted back high on his untanned forehead.
“Holy Cow!” Ben whispered out the side of his mouth, “his mother should be slapped for dressing him like that.”
Milt recovered from her own state of shocked disbelief and gave Ben a glance that said more than words.
“Well…,” Ben shrugged.
Ralph Osborne and Kent Miller were at the rear of their stock trailer when Ben and Milto arrived, joined directly by the veterinarian and his entourage. Dr. O'Brien introduced the mystery youth as his nephew, Tom O'Brien, fresh out of Toronto. Milt noted the warm and friendly smile as the easterner swept off his pseudo Stetson to acknowledge her, then turned to Ben and drawled what was meant to be a deep “Howdy, pardner,” but his voice broke..
Milt sensed Ben's obvious discomfiture in the presence of the costume and she almost laughed aloud when she caught the sly wink from Tom's uncle, Dr. O'Brien.
Doc Rigby said, “Young Tom here wants to learn the ropes in the cattle business so I figured he ought to get his start on a big spread.”
The lad certainly showed enthusiasm as his eyes darted around the scene before him, trying to absorb it all at once. Ben noticed that the kid's gaze tended to refocus on Milt quite often.
Robert Milto came over to the group and, handing Milt a large vaccinating gun, greeted the newcomers. Tom O'Brien demonstrated a more reserved greeting for the tall rancher upon introduction. Robert Milto barely managed to suppress shocked surprise upon hearing the youth's name but he hastily recovered and shook the youth's hand. A faint glint flashed in the grey eyes. “Pleased to meet you, young Tom O'Brien. We're happy to have the extra help.”
Horses were off-loaded and the ropers mounted up. Ben retrieved his dad's horse from the corral, tightened the cinch, lithely swung aboard and rode out into the large calf pen while Sven Larson closed the gate behind him.
A half ton truck, its box loaded with a boisterous lot of high school boys from around the area, joined the growing crowd of vehicles in the sand and sage parking lot. The lads piled over the sides of the truck and, in a troupe, scrambled over the rough plank walls of the corral.
The large herd of calves, along with their chaperones, pressed the far side of the pen, each trying to hide from the human army opposite.
“Jah! The irons are hot,” Sven announced, commencing the day's branding.
“Let the games begin,” said Shaun Miller.
Ben eased his mount up to the herd, shaking out a large loop in his lariat. The noose snaked out, slapping a big calf low on the hind legs and, as it kicked, the loop fell open and both hind feet landed in the circle of the hemp. With a lightning fast jerk, Ben pulled up the slack, cinched the noose, then dallied two quick turns around the sturdy saddle horn while simultaneously urging his pony to drag the startled, struggling bovine near the fire. Shaun and Dennis Miller, twins and veteran calf wrestlers, were on Ben's prize immediately. The calf's hind legs were slightly off the ground as the rope remained taut and Shaun moved to the back end of the squalling animal and grabbed the tail. With a deft movement up and back, he pulled the calf onto its side and Dennis quickly pinned the front end, grasping a foreleg and folding the hock and knee forwards, immobilizing the animal's shoulder.
While Dennis secured the front end, Shaun, in a fluid movement, grasped the top rear leg and stretched it out while seating himself on the ground behind the calf and firmly pushed a booted foot against the knee joint of the lower leg. This movement loosened the loop around the hind feet .
“Geeze! Ben, this calf is half a cow! Did you have to warm us up on the biggest of the bunch?” Shaun said as he slipped the slackened noose off to allow the roper freedom to select another patient.
Ben flashed his broad grin, “Hang on to him,” and rode back to the herd.
Shaun looked at Dennis. “Rocking M… right side? left side?”
“Oh God, don't tell me we have to flip this big brute,” Dennis groaned.
Sven appeared with a red hot branding iron. “Rocking M, right hip, jah, you have him godt.”
“Jah, we got him godt,” Dennis nodded to his brother.
“You mock ol' Sven and there be Rocking M on more than the calf, jah?” the Norwegian growled.
“Don' mock ol' Sven,” said Shaun.
“Jah, don' mock ol' Sven,” said Dennis.
Acrid yellow smoke billowed up from the burning hair as Sven firmly applied the hot M and the big calf vainly struggled against the straining youths. Lou Collins stepped in with the Rocking iron immediately as Sven finished and Milt ducked past the smoke, calling a greeting to the Miller boys as she knelt down to press the needle of the vaccinating gun into the young bovine's shoulder. She squeezed the handle and then, holding the skin of the puncture, extracted the needle and gave the area a brief massage. She quickly stepped back and went in search of the next patient.
“It's a bull,” Dennis called out to Leonard Yeast, who performed the duty of 'knife man', castrating the males.
“Horns?” Sven asked.
Dennis felt the sides of the calf's upper forehead to check for the telltale nubs which would grow into horns. If the animal had these protrusions, they must be removed or the owner would suffer a percentage loss when the beast went through the sales ring in the fall. Horns were also not a desirable trait on heifers, which may be kept for replacements in the breeding herd. Cows with horns soon learned how to cause trouble in the confines of the winter feed lot.
“Yep! Horns too,” Dennis said.
Fred Moffat appeared with the paraphernalia for dehorning. The farmer gave no indication but he must have been torn apart inside. His son Les had been a willing and sturdy hand at community brandings. The lad's quick wit and ready grin were always at the forefront of the branding banter between ropers and 'rasslers.
“This one gets the whole treatment, Fred,” Shaun said.
“Looks like quite a few polled ones here, though.” Fred knelt down and began to apply the caustic paste to the budding horns.
A brilliant flash of scarlet swept by the group and Leonard Yeast looked up from his neutering operation. “Nut pail,” he said to Tom O'Brien, who had been assigned the less dignified job of collecting the 'prairie oysters', as the knife man extracted the testicles from the bull calves. The lad sauntered up, extending the pail towards Leonard, nervously reluctant to come too close.
“Bring it over here where I can reach,” Leonard said. “The calf won't bite you.”
The easterner stepped closer . “I hain't skeared of the calf, it's that knife that spooks me!”
Fred, Shaun and Dennis laughed.
“Leonard went all last year with only one mistake,” Shaun said.
“One mistake?”
“Yeah,” Shaun continued. “Len's so fast that he had brother Dennis here,” he indicated with a nod, “half done before we could get him stopped.”
“I didn't complain at all though,” Dennis said.
“That would take balls” Tom said, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Leonard dropped the second oyster in the pail, sloshed disinfectant in the incision and stood up. “All done?” he asked the Millers.
'Horns done,” Fred said as he rose and stepped away.
“Branded,” Dennis said.
“Vaccinated,” Shaun affirmed.
“Let 'em go.”
Dennis released the back leg as Shaun held the front down and, a second later, let go of the foreleg, stood up and stepped back in one motion. The calf lay still for a moment then leaped to its feet and bounded away to rejoin his comrades.
Elsewhere calves were being held down by other wrestling duos, ropers were casting their lariats and the various technicians performed their duties. There were six wrestling teams and four horsemen. Fred Moffat could single-handedly keep up with his duties as dehorner since many of the animals were of a polled ancestry. Leonard Yeast, on the other hand, needed help occasionally when several bull calves were 'on the ground' at once. Robert Milto assisted with the castrating and branding while at the same time keeping an eye on the overall procedure.
Kent Miller towed a large Charolais calf roped by one leg as the struggling animal cavorted back and forth in a semicircle behind the rider. Shouts and yells ensued as the young bull caused pandemonium among the ground crews who hastened to dodge the taut lariat as it scythed past them. Two 'rasslers' desperately chased the beleaguered animal, trying to grasp the elusive rope. Tom O'Brien, with the oyster pail in hand and unaware of the danger, became stranded between bovine and horse as the runaway calf continued to dance a three legged swath across the corral.
Milt shouted, “Watch out, Tom!” as the bewildered youth darted a fearful look to right and left, looking for an escape route. Just before the lariat made contact, the easterner leaped in the air, scissoring his long legs and cleared the rope, while continuing to retain his grip on the oyster pail. He landed on his feet on the safe side of the rope as Danny Reid finally managed to grasp the lariat and anchor the calf. The boy's black cowboy hat had fallen off and landed in the path of the errant little bull.
Milt dashed over to him and, as Tom stooped to retrieve his battered sombrero, asked, “Are you okay?”
“I'm all right but my hat is slightly a-bashed.”
“It's too hot for a felt hat anyway,” Milt said.
“Nut pail,” Leonard Yeast shouted from his operating position across the corral.
Tom trotted away and Milt, with vaccinating gun in hand, quickly turned to inject the cause of the melee as it now lay subdued, stretched out on the gritty hardpan of the corral.
The branding had reached one side or the other of the halfway point when Leonard Yeast's pickup, driven by his wife, Myrna, pulled into the outer corral and parked near the fence just opposite the branding fire. Claudette St. Jacques rode in the cab with Mrs. Yeast while Myrna's daughters, Brenda, Betty-Anne and Jocelyn, shared the truck box with Constance Milto and Valerie Reid. A large deep-walled circular wash tub with a plywood lid occupied the remainder of the space in the bed of the truck. Ice cold water had been sloshing out around the edges of the tub and Brenda's barefooted younger sisters were dabbing their bare toes in the rivulets then flicking the water at her.
“Hey, the beer truck's here!” Ben announced from his vantage point astride his father's bay.
Robert Milto called a halt to the ropers who soon strapped their lariats to saddles, dismounted, loosened cinches to give the horses a 'blow' and made their way to the fence. As soon as the last of the caught calves received their respective ministrations, the ground crew also headed for Leonard Yeast's pickup. A brief 'beer break' ensued as most of the parched crew partook in a 'cold one'.
Ben took a swallow from his chilled Bohemian and grinned over the top of the bottle at Tom O'Brien, whose curly dark hair was no longer obscured by the heavy black hat. “That was an Olympic standing jump you done, clearing that lariat. I figured for certain we'd be salving you down for third degree rope burns.”
“Pretty good for an Oyster Man,” Danny Reid said. “And doing a fine job at that, too.”
Tom accepted the banter. “Oh yeah, a genuine pearl. I thought prairie oysters were just a western tall tale.”
Danny said, “Oh no, Tom, when the ladies have those little morsels prepared and fried up they make the very finest of western 'hors d' oeuvre'.”
Shaun Miller asked, “You sure you said that right, Danny?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Do you think you could give me a few lassoing lessons, Ben?” Tom asked.
“Sure, lesson number one… we don't say lasso around here; that one's free, the rest are extra.”
“How much?” .
Doc Rigby now entered the conversation. “'Ben Collins Private Roping Lessons… How could you put a price on that?”
“Hey, Doc, I been noticing that loop of yours doesn't always land anywheres near the calf. Is that a new rope trick?” Ben asked.
More jibes went about until Ben allowed he could give the greenhorn a few free tips on tossing a loop.
“But you best practice on the ground before trying it off a horse. You'll wind up with the rope around your neck on a runaway nag.”
“Then I might get the hang of it,” the Torontonian said.
“Oh, God, “ Ben groaned, “put me back on my horse.”
Except for the mare Ben was using for roping, the round-up horses had been turned loose in the horse corral before the branding began. Now the sturdy little bay showed signs of strain as Ben's unerring rope had accounted for a large percentage of the caught calves. She had also worked a rough shift on round-up the day before. The unrelenting sun took a toll on man and beast. Milt followed the roper over to the horse when the beer break ended.
“She's growing weary, Ben,” Milt said as the roper tightened his cinch.
“Yeah, I wish Scoundrel hadn't come up lame this morning. He's a lot younger and stronger.”
“You can use Whiskey if you want.”
Ben's face lit up. “Really? Wow! That's quite an offer, Milt. Nobody's be'n on that horse but you in four years!”
“I'll talk to him, Ben. I've been practising roping fence posts off him and he's hauled some stuff around at the end of a lariat.”
“Yeah, like Pete Liscombe's pig fence.”
Milt caught and bridled her buckskin while Ben stripped saddle and gear from his dad's mare. He then hurriedly strapped his rig on Whiskey.
Roping had resumed when Ben proudly guided the big gelding into the calf pen. Whiskey went to work like he'd been a roping horse all his life and Ben's loop never failed as he sought and caught the dwindling number of unbranded calves.
During the latter part of the operation, Tom O'Brien, without reluctance, had relinquished his 'Oyster Man' duties to the two younger Yeast daughters and, under Milt's watchful guidance, proceeded to master the art of vaccination.
Milt demonstrated how to gently, but fast and firmly, insert the needle subcutaneously in the soft skin of the animal's shoulder area.
“Be sure you don't push it in a fold and out the other side, and keep the needle in place until the full measure is injected. It is safer to give the wrestlers time to have the calf subdued before stepping in close with that little weapon.”
Milt showed Tom that the 'gun' could be pre-set for a determined amount and then demonstrated the technique of filling the syringe from the glass bottles of vaccine being kept 'refrigerated' in a small ice chest which also served as oyster locker.
“And don't poke yourself or the wrestlers.”
“I'll make a point of it.”
Following a turn at vaccinating, Shaun and Dennis Miller were happy to give Tom calf wrestling lessons. The athletic youth demonstrated his strength when Doc Rigby hauled a particularly large calf in to the 'operating room'.
“You're a natural,” Shaun said.
“Yeah,” agreed Dennis. “What do you practice on down east?”
The breathless lad didn't have time to respond for at that instant the calf put up a violent struggle as Lou Collins applied the iron.
Pressure for the ground crews eased as the ropers took longer to ferret out their targets and sometimes only one or two animals were on the ground. Finally Ben and Whiskey dragged the last struggling calf up to the fire and the Miller brothers claimed it.
Tom then had the honour of placing 'The Rocking M' on the right hip of the elusive final calf of the day. Dennis Miller had to stop the lad from making a quarter circle W as he nearly applied the irons upside down.
Ben Collins slowly coiled his lariat and wound a supple leather thong around to secure rope to saddle then hooked a leg around the horn and sat semi-cross wise, comfortably surveying the procedure from atop Milt's buckskin horse. “We'll have to put you on the payroll,” he said when Tom had completed his task.
Lou Collins relieved the Torontonian of the still hot irons and dipped the ends in a pail of used motor oil near the fire while Tom queried Ben about some riding lessons.
“Well, I'll tell you what,” said Ben, “there are a couple of big steers in this bunch that was born early on and they didn't need no work today on account of they was branded before being turned out in the spring. We could put a rope on them big fellers and we could do some steer riding - put on a bit of a ro-de-o for the folks.”
Tom's eyes grew big upon hearing this opportunity. He was stuck for a pun.
“You mean it? Steer riding?”
Ben said, “Yep, steer riding, no bull.”
A crowd had begun to gather as the two lads were talking. Most of the listeners, having already made a stop at the beer trough, were holding a bottle of ale. Doc Rigby held a brew in one hand and his horse's reins in the other, likewise did Kent Miller.
Doc set his beer in the shade of a corral post and said, “We'll catch them for you,”.
“Head or heels?” Kent asked as he slipped a toe in the stirrup and swung aboard his roping pony.
Doc smiled, “I've seen enough calf behinds today, how about if you score the feet?”
Brenda Yeast walked up to Ben and Whiskey and and said, “Ben, you be careful, we've had a few injuries already, Danny got kicked in the knee, now he's limping around like Pete Liscombe on a cold day and some of the wrestlers got pretty good rope burns. Besides, haven't you had enough riding?”
Ben blushed. “They're just big calves, dear. I'll be all right.”
Milt brought the shortened piece of rope she and Ben had cut last night while working on the injured bull.
“Good thinkin', Milt. That will work just fine for riggin',” Ben said.
Doc Rigby and Kent Miller quickly had one of the big steers stretched out and anchored between their two horses. Shaun Miller slipped the severed length of lariat around the animal's girth and, with Dennis's help they rolled the three-quarters grown calf on to its belly. Then Shaun said to Tom, who was donning a pair of thin leather gloves loaned by another wrestler. “Tuck your hand through under here, palm upwards, snug the loose end of the rope back around your fingers and into your hand and grip it tight. When you're ready, nod. We'll pull the ropes off both ends when the riders give us some slack. When he jumps up, you hang on and ride 'im. Danny's got a stopwatch, when ten seconds are up, if you're still aboard, one of the riders will come up beside you and help you off.”
Dennis, punching the wrinkles out, handed Tom his black hat. “This'll let everybody know you're a cowboy. Screw it on tight.”
Several emotions vied for first place on the determined easterner's visage but fear was not among them.
Settled down on the steer, knees clamped tight, Tom gave a curt nod and the boys pulled the bonds free. At first, the ride appeared anti-climactic as the dazed calf took a few seconds to realize he was free and then deliberated about the burden bolted to his back. Dennis swept off his straw hat and swatted the animal across the rear.
That put the wheels in motion.
Onlookers shouted advice and encouragement to the dark haired greenhorn as he rode the young bovine. The steer performed a commendable job of twisting, turning and spinning around the arena in every effort to dislodge his human cargo but Tom O'Brien hooked his heels in under the flanks and managed to stay astride. Finally, Kent Miller, the pick up rider, guided his horse in close to the bucking steer and helped lift Tom free.
Whistles and cheers went up from the bystanders as Tom dropped clear of the horse and rider, faced the crowd and, doffing his dusty black hat, made a deep sweeping bow.
Benny Collins' wide grin hid his face as he commended the Easterner. “Good ride, Toronto,” he said. “Now, you just hop up on that rail right there; let me show you how it's done.”
Kent and Doc Rigby roped and stretched out the second calf and Ben was soon strapped astride the inert animal who demonstrated a more feisty reluctance to human handling. As Ben gave the signal and the ropes came off, the steer, with no urging, sprang into action. Knees clamped hard and heels raking, Ben held tight with his right hand and kept his left free from touching the bucking, bellowing bovine. Steer and cowboy performed a genuine crowd pleaser. When Danny Reid announced the ten second time was up, the veterinarian ?cum pick up rider? rode in to help Ben free of his bovine 'bronc'. Still on the run, Doc pulled Ben clear but his arm slipped and the young cowboy lost balance as the ground swept his feet out from under him. Ben managed a sideways roll to avoid the feet of Doc's horse but, unfortunately, the calf, running along side, caught him on the side of the head with a hind foot.
Momentum kept Ben rolling for another half turn and he lay ominously still. Doc kept the frightened calf away from the inert cowboy as it broke to rejoin its comrades at the far end of the corral.
Momentarily shocked, the crowd stood in silence then, as one, everyone rushed to the stricken lad. The first to reach his side was Brenda Yeast. “Oh, Benny!,” she cried, as she knelt beside him and cradled a limp hand in both of hers.
The crowd made room for Lou Collins and Doctor O'Brien to come through. Tears welled up in Brenda's eyes and Lou's face was ashen as they watched the physician examining Ben. After checking the pulse, the doctor turned to the bruised cut trailing a trickle of blood down Benny's face.
“He's taken a pretty stiff rap on the head, but he's just knocked out,” Dr. O'Brien said. “The heart beat is strong, he should come round soon.”
At that moment, Ben's eyes flickered and he groaned as pain obscured his vision. Slowly he moved his free hand to touch upon the sore spot. Gradually, objects swam into focus and the first thing he saw clearly was the worry in the tear-filled blue eyes of his pretty girlfriend.
“Brenda, darlin', will you marry me?” he asked.
“Oh, Benny!” Brenda gasped again and, mindless of the dust and blood, kissed his face. She whispered, “Yes, I'll marry you!”
Dr. O'Brien smiled. “He'll be okay.”
Lou Collins straightened up, his relief audible as he said, “I guess he needed a good knock on the head.”
Dennis Miller broke the tension; throwing his hat in the air, he howled, “Hooooly shit! Benny's gettin' married!”
His brother Shaun yelped, “Let there be beer!”
…Brandings today are very similar to the way we did things when I was a kid, in fact, nothing much has changed since my father was a lad back in the old 'dipping vat' days. One occasion truly stands out in my memory, though, for two reasons, and that was a branding we held over at the Milto spread in the late sixties. For one thing, it happened to be the day Brenda and I became engaged and secondly, Tom O'Brien was there and he rode a steer. Everybody in Canada knows Tom O'Brien, the famous statesman and politician, but not everyone realizes that that same Tom O'Brien, city boy from Toronto, once won the title of World Champion Bull Rider at the National Finals Rodeo and he made his first ride right here….
Submitted by Ben Collins
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