In the early 1950s we had a gang in southeast Humboldt.
Every summer day Carl King, Tony Edwards, Sarajane Clements and I hung out. Our heroes were cowboys, Roy, Gene, Red Ryder, Lash LaRue, and, for Sarajanes sake, Dale Evans.
We didnt ride stick horses how silly, we thought but went about Mulberry Street and neighbors yards galloping and slapping our thighs as if they were our mounts.
I fashioned an old straw hat to look like those we saw in movies, and had a cap gun in a Roy Rogers belt and holster.
The object of our ramblings was bad guys rustlers, robbers and any others who threatened nice folks we were sworn to protect.
During the school year our group increased and at recess we often formed cavalry units. I was a self-appointed scout and often charged about the school yard to report what was happening. Usually, it was as quiet as a mouse peeing on cotton.
In later years our interests naturally migrated elsewhere. But, the Wild West has always held fascination as I pictured me on a nice Paint with a riata hanging on one side of my comfortable high-back saddle and a lever-action 30-30 tucked away on the other. I thought about riding across the Llano Estacado (Staked Plains) in search of a lost dogey. Or trailing along on a manhunt with Joaquin Jackson, an iconic Texas Ranger.
Anytime I had a chance to ride a horse, I was willing. All were little more than old nags and hadnt moved faster than a meander in years; to my advantage.
My chance to get a better feel for cowboying came a few years ago when I made friends with A.L. Daugherty, who had been foreman for 40 years on Lost Lake Ranch, a 100-section spread north of Roswell, N.M.
Once we spent a day driving over the ranch, looking around playas (dry lakes) for arrowheads, admiring rattlesnakes wiggling through sparse vegetation and me listening to tales from his many years of tending cattle. A.L. died a few years ago, but his memories have stayed with me.
Last week we were in Roswell again. On the way there I resolved to make a couple of purchases that had been in my mind for years.
First, I bought a black wool hat of typical cowboy style.
That done, I was off a day later with Beverly in tow to a ranch and livestock emporium. Row after row of cowboy boots greeted us and I needed her advice. We settled on a pair Durangos, the most comfortable footwear Ive ever owned.
Next, we milled through an aisle with rack after rack of vests. I picked a sharp-looking black one made in Wyoming.
I may look like a drugstore cowboy; thats OK. I enjoy pulling on a pair of jeans, flannel shirt, the nicely stitched boots, wide-brim hat, vest and assuming the role I was born for.
Just call me Cowboy Bob.
