Where the West Began

Branding time is a time of hard work. Despite the fact that in northeast Texas most of the big ranches are long gone and a lot of farmers have moved in and put up fences and such, you still got a few old diehards like Billy Ray Thornhill of the Rocking R Ranch who insist on letting stock run free, which means when it's time to brand the new calves, you have to chase them down all over the back and beyond.



We're a small spread, so there aren't all that many of us working. There's me, Hadley Snipes is my name, only they call me Sandman for some reason; Pacho Jimenez, who come up to east Texas from the Rio Grande Valley to get away from the father of a young lady he'd been seeing kind of close like; Jebediah Washington, a big, mean black man who'd been born about two years before the Civil War ended, over in Mississippi or somewhere, whose folks headed west soon as President Lincoln freed up the slaves '" we called him Cookie, because along with wrangling, branding, and such, he did the cooking when at the bunkhouse and when we were out on the range; and, there was Sam Hatfield, who everybody just called Snake, and like my name, I don't think he knew why. Ask me, I think it was because he had them narrow, evil looking eyes like a snake, and he never seemed to blink. Snake came south from Chicago, and he never would tell nobody what he was running from.



We were a motley crew, but we all got along. Old man Thornhill never did get married, so he was always off to places like Fort Worth and east over to Shreveport; he said he was off to find buyers for our stock, but we all knew it was because he pined for female companionship. Heck, we all pined for female companionship, but the only females for miles around were the wives and daughters of the farmers, and that just didn't work out. Everybody knows that farmers and cattlemen don't belong together. Heck, out west, they even had outright shooting wars between the two groups. We used to take turns, every few weeks or so; one of us would get to go off to Fort Worth for a week.



The rest of the time, we'd just sit around the bunkhouse or the cook fire, when we was branding or rounding up, and eat Cookie's grub, and sing, or play dominos. Sometimes, I'd tell a story, which always seemed to make everybody want to hit the sack early. Since we worked from sun up to sun down every day except Sunday, usually wasn't a problem sleeping.



I reckon you're thinking about now that we lived a pretty boring life, but that would be just plain wrong. It was a pretty good life. We got paid five dollars a month with room and board, and Thornhill was a pretty decent boss '" he didn't hang around giving orders all that much, and we all got along with each other pretty good. So, you see, life wasn't too bad.



I got myself sidetracked there, didn't I? I was talking about branding, and how it's hard work and all, wasn't I? I do that sometimes when I'm telling a story; I think of something else and I sort of dog leg off on that trail. Well, I promise not to stray off again, really.



Actually, it wasn't branding I wanted to tell you about. It's just that the really interesting thing that happened with the Rocking R crew happened when we were out branding.



We were back up in what we call the hill country; an area of gently sloping, rolling hills, covered here and there with pines and cottonwoods, with lots of open areas covered in clover. The cattle liked to wander off to places like that because they got to graze on sweet clover, and they only had to worry about the occasional cottonmouth or a wolf pack which might wander up into the hills from time to time.



It was a great place for the cattle, but it made branding them hard work, because you had to duck in and out of them clumps of trees to catch them, and roping them was pretty near impossible, because the lariats were always getting snagged on low hanging branches. So, you see what I mean; branding is hard work.



We'd had a pretty long day, and everybody was tuckered. Even the three old dogs we always took along to help us track down the stock, seemed beat, laying around the chuck wagon, waiting for scraps from Cookie's grub, which he was hunched over preparing. The rest of us, not having much else to do since we'd unsaddled and brushed our horses down. We did Cookie's horse for him; him doing the cooking and all, it seemed the decent thing to do. Cookie had spent the day, just like the rest of us, out there running down strays and holding them down so we could burn the Rocking R brand into their hides. Anyway, since we didn't have much else to do, we all sort of gathered around the chuck wagon, sniffing at the aroma of the cooking grub, and talking. I think Cookie appreciated the company.



"Cookie, amigo," Pacho said. "That what you are cooking, it sure smells good. Where did you learn to cook like that?"



Cookie looked up from the big skillet he'd been bending over, a smile creasing his wide brown face.



"My mama taught me," he said. "When I was little. She said, probably wouldn't be no woman ever want to marry me, so if I wasn't to starve, I needed to know how to cook."



Pacho always asked that question, and Cookie always answered the same way, and we all laughed when they did it.



"Hey, Cookie," I said. "That is some strange looking stuff in that skillet. Never seen anything like it before. What is it?"



I was referring to what looked like pancakes, only thicker, or biscuits, only thinner, that were sizzling in the oil in the skillet.



"This is cornbread," Cookie said. "Sort of like the same cornbread I bake back at the bunkhouse, but I ain't got me no oven out here, so I thought I'd just fry up a batch."



Snake, who'd been hanging back, stepped up and peered down into the skillet.



"It don't rightly look like cornbread, and it don't smell like cornbread," he said. "It smells a whole lot better, in fact. You can't call it cornbread."



"I can call it anything I want to call it," Cookie said. "But, you right, it smells better than regular cornbread. That's because of the grease I fry it in, and the onion and pepper I chopped up in the batter."



Snake's kind of a loner, more so than most; but him and Cookie get along pretty well, and Snake's always trying to get Cookie to put names on the dishes he cooks up. Cookie's always putting strange stuff together and cooking it up in a different way and it's almost always pretty good. Snake keeps saying he ought to write him a cookbook or something.



"Well," Snake said. "I think you ought to call it something other than plain old cornbread, because it ain't plain old cornbread."



"I reckon you got yourself a point," Cookie said. "But, what am I gonna call it?"



Just then, the dogs started caterwauling, barking, howling, and more or less kicking up a ruckus. I reckon the smell coming from the skillet had overwhelmed their patience and they wanted some of what was cooking.



Cookie whirled on them. "Now, you just shut up, you mangy dogs!" He yelled. He grabbed one of the little fried corn cakes he'd taken from the skillet and put on a big tray setting on the tail of the chuck wagon, and threw it into the middle of the dogs. They immediately stopped their noise and pounced on the food.



"That's it!" Snake cried. "That's what you ought to call them."



Cookie turned on him. "You mean I ought to call these '˜Shut up You Mangy Dogs? That don't sound like anything anybody would want to eat."



"Naw, Cookie," Snake countered. "But, look at how quick them dogs quieted down. You ought to call these things, hush puppies, because they hush them puppies up, now don't they?"



Cookie cocked his head, and laid a beefy finger on his fleshy jaw.



"Now, you got yourself a point. And, they did hush them dogs up right enough. Okay, Snake, hush puppies it is." He turned to me and Pacho. "Come on, chow's on. I got beans, some fried sausages, and hush puppies."



Now, folks, I don't know what else you might have been told, or what you might have heard, but that's the pure dee truth. It happened just like that, one evening back out beyond the river, up in the hills, behind the Rocking R.