It had been a rather rough winter and spring. A hard winter had led into March blizzard that had been hard on livestock and people alike. Our cows weren’t calving yet, so we hadn’t lost any calves in the storm, but when turned out to get out of the mud and drifts in the corrals, some of the cows had walked out onto a snowbank over a dam and gone under, drowning nearly a third of the cowherd. That was followed up by yet another cow getting on her back in a low spot and dying about a week later. It was not encouraging. I had been told by the neighbor that I could put the dead cows in his pit, which was across the road and out of sight about a half mile from our house. I’d gotten the drowned cows down to the pit while the snow was on and the gumbo was still pretty solid. The last cow, though, had to be taken down when the bottom had absolutely gone out of the sod and the tractor really struggled to get through. The pasture with the pit had a bunch of pretty lively inhabitants in it in the form of a string of bucking bulls. I’d worked for the owner for several years helping him feed the bulls through the winter and sort them to go to rodeos in the summer, so I knew them pretty well. Mostly they were apt to just ignore a person or move away, but there were several of them that never quit hunting a person if they spotted one. Those two were black Brangus types, with predatory instincts. Being solid black and without horns, they were pretty easy to pick out of the bunch and keep an eye on. The tractor hadn’t drawn any attention from the bulls as they were fed with a pickup, not a tractor, so they were spread out over nearly the whole pasture, but mostly east of where I had to follow the trail to the pit with the tractor. I’d gotten nearly to the pit when I had to cross a ditch and I buried the tractor there. It couldn’t do a thing, even after I had unhooked from the dead cow. I rocked it, used the loader bucket to try to leverage it out, and every trick I’d ever used to dislodge a tractor. None worked. I was going to have to walk home and get help to get it out. Not a problem, as it was only a half mile or so, but, I had to walk through the bulls all the way. I mentally reviewed the bulls I’d seen on my way over to the pit and didn’t remember seeing either of the two bulls that were dangerous. The bulls I had between me and the gate were mostly horned, humped and alert, but not the bad ones. With caution, I started toward the gate. As I got nearly to the halfway point, the three horses that were in the pasture spotted me. One was a really good pickup horse who I would feed a little cake to if he happened to catch me with some in my pocket. His name was Bud. The horses were sure curious of a person walking out in their pasture and came at a trot, heads up and snorting. I’d kept my head on a swivel the whole way, and when I looked to the east, there was a bull coming at a trot too. He was a black bull with no horns, and one of the treacherous bulls that I always kept an eye on. You can bet that I felt pretty vulnerable out there afoot with that bull coming toward me, and him closer to the gate than me. The bull was still about 30 yards off and had me in his sights when Bud reached me, looking for his handout. I got Bud between me and the bull and started petting on Bud and telling him all the good things I felt about him to keep him close. He was my only hope. Now Bud was a broke pickup horse, indeed, but none of their horses were really pets who were in your pocket types. Also, I knew the outfit well enough to know that Bud had probably been bucked out in the past. So, I wasn’t sure Bud would stay with me. If he spooked and took off, I was a gone gosling. The bull got there, ears forward and eyes zeroed in on me, some slobbers running out of his mouth as he’d bawl low and deep. There’s nothing quite like the Brahman “growl” that they can make, as it rumbles in their chest in a bass tone. Thus began a game of cat and mouse, with big old Bud as my safe place. Around and around I went, under Bud’s neck, around his tail end, over and over, as the bull stalked me. The bull stayed off 15 feet or so at first, and let me tell you, I didn’t have to wonder what his intentions were. He thought he had me for sure and was enjoying his game. Every duck and move I made around Bud made me wonder just how long he’d put up with my behavior, which to him must have seemed pretty strange. Any moment I expected Bud to get a belly full and leave me, which would likely be my end. I contemplated trying to crawl on him bareback but, without anything on his head or so much as a twine or my belt around his neck, didn’t think that would be successful. He was way over 16 hands tall so getting on him wouldn’t have been any piece of cake even if I knew he would stand for it. This game of nerves with the bull must have gone on for over 10 minutes, at least, though it felt like a week. He was moving in closer with each pass, and Bud was getting antsy, I could tell. I was winded, partly due to fear and partly due to the unending laps around Bud with sudden switches of direction. I had scurried one more time around Bud’s hindquarters, with the bull making his closest pass at me, and ducked under Bud’s neck. Suddenly, Bud had had enough! He whirled away from me, head snaked out and his ears flat back and took after the bull. He had the bull at a dead run, biting his hip and ribs, headed for the creek and away from me. Needless to say, I didn’t stand there and watch but made a break for the gate. It’s amazing how fast one can be in overshoes and winter clothes! I got through the gate, closed it firmly, and sat down on the ground against the post. As I let my heart slow down and caught my breath, I was thanking God for Bud and for sending him to help me. The outcome, without Bud’s intervention, could have been grim. I could have been injured badly, if not killed, and probably found first by my little boy when he got home from school. A neighbor came on the freeze up the next morning and helped me get the tractor out, and I got the cow put in the pit and my sad job done, so all’s well that ends well. Good old Bud was the recipient of handfuls of cake from there on out. I’d actually drop what I was doing to go and feed him some over the fence. I owed him my life, it’s the least I could do. That big roan horse was my guardian angel that day and I never forgot it.
Jan was raised on a ranch in far western South Dakota. She grew up horseback working all descriptions of cattle, plus sheep and horses. After leaving home she pursued a post-graduate study of cowboying and dayworking in Nebraska, New Mexico, Montana, Wyoming and South Dakota....
