Even God Can Make Mistakes
Even God Can Make Mistakes
By
William W. Kelso
The old rancher was dying, and he knew it. He was 97 years old this past Tuesday, and up until he'd had his stroke a few days ago he'd hoped he might make it to 100. But it wasn't in the cards. His third wife was by his bedside day and night, caring for him. He knew she truly loved him, and he also loved her as well, but had never really been able to show it as much as he has wished. Now he took the time to let her know how much she had, and still, meant to him over the years. His one big regret was he had never been able to give her any children, but for that he blamed himself.
All his ranch hands, both old and new, came to pay him visits. The old hands would try to sneak in a chaw or bottle of whiskey every now and then, but his wife always caught them. One evening while several of hands were visiting him, he told his wife he wanted to be buried next to Buddy. The older hands nodded their heads in understanding and said,
"We'll take care of it Boss, don't you worry none."
Even though his wife didn't like it, she understood. But the young hands were curious.
"Who was Buddy??"
The old rancher, who had nothing better to do, told them to "Get comfortable, boys, this is a long one!" And so he started to tell the story.
As you boys know I had the honor of serving under Gen. Hood and Bobby Lee in the War Between the States. After we lost I couldn't stand to stay in the Old South and see what them damn Yankee carpetbaggers and hooligans were doing to it. Plus I wouldn't sign no Oath of Allegiance to the Yankees, so I come out West with a price on my head. All I had was 500 Confederate dollars and an old Henry carbine. I earned this land by homesteading it, and spent every dollar
I made to buy more. I fought nature, Indians, claim jumpers, and every other kind of varmit to keep it, and I won!
In them early days the only close neighbors I had, if you can say almost twenty miles one way was close, was a family named the Driscoll. Old Mr. Driscoll was a War vet too, but he'd fought for the Union. Needless to say we weren't the best of friends, but we got along well enough as we needed one another. He had 40 acres he'd gotten from the Yankee govt. for his war service, and had only one arm courtesy of a Reb sharpshooter at Gettysburg. He was Scots-Irish like me and tough as nails. He already had four sons when he got here, and between them they built a decent little farm. He had good land along the river bottoms, and raised mainly corn & other crops he sold to drovers and ranchers like me. I tried to buy him out more than a few times, but he would never sell even though
I offered him way more than the land was worth. Once I even took a few of my
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hands over to "talk" some sense" into him. He met me on his front porch with his old musket in his hand, and his two older boys, one with a pitchfork and the other with an old shotgun. Hell, I couldn't run off a man with one arm who was ready to fight to the death to keep what he'd made! We ended up staying for dinner! And after that we was right good friends. Turns out both his and my Pa's were from Dublin, go figure!
He had four boys: Kevin, Patrick, John, and Robert. The first three were big strong lads, and smart to boot. But while Robert was big and strong, he never was quite right in the head. For some reason everybody called him Buddy, never did know why.
Well the Driscolls come on hard times when their eldest, Kevin, was killed in one of the last Indian raids. Those redskins caught him out alone repairing fences and cut him up something awful. His Ma never was quite right after that. His brother Patrick joined the army in order to avenge his brother, and he was with the 7th at the Little Big Horn. I'm sure he gave a good account of hisself as he always were a crack shot. John was kind of the black sheep of the family, he ran off to who knows where. But he did send his family some money off and on. They think he went to sea, and may have gone down with his ship as they finally stopped hearing from him. That left Buddy and his father to run their farm.
Buddy was a hard working boy, but had no talent for reading, writing, or any kind of school learning. He was a big ugly boy, all gawky and clumsy. But he worked hard and his folks loved him as much as he loved them. When his Pa died of a heart attack one hot summer day in the fields he and his Ma just couldn't keep the place going no more. I bought it from his Ma for a good price, and helped set them up with a small house in town. Their old place is the North line shed we use, and you boys seen how well it was built.
Well a few months later Mrs. Hat come to me with a request, it seems her boy Buddy just wasn't made out for town life. He sulked and either stayed home, or made himself a pest around the stables and stock yards. He always was more comfortable around animals then folks, and he eventually got in trouble with Johnny Law. Seems he attacked and whaled on a man that was beating a downed horse, and even though folks say the man beating the horse was in the wrong, he still had to go to Jail for assault. So his ma come to me to ask me to try and get her boy out of the Jail, and find him work.
Now like I said he weren't quite right in the head, but I did know he was good with animals and a hard worker. I had a talk with the sheriff, who didn't really want to keep Buddy locked up as he was a good fair man for a law dog. He agreed if I took Buddy on at my place he'd let him out for time served and good behavior. It was one of the best deals I ever made. I put Buddy to work in the stables as a Jack-of-all-trades. He'd be in charge of mucking, feeding, and anything else that needed doing that the other hands didn't have time for.
He fit right in, he forgot more about taking care of Mules and horses than anyone else I can remember. He seemed to know exactly what was wrong, or what they needed. He must have been almost six and half feet tall, and was big and gawky. He had the strangest eyes I'd ever seen too, big innocent eyes just like a horse or
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mule. Plus he had a stutter when he talked, so of course some of the hands made fun of him to start with. Mostly in good fun though, and he seemed to know that. He never got mad about it, and even laughed at himself. He didn't have a mean bone in his body. That right there earned him some respect. And the hands knew he would take good care of the stock. Some of you boys may remember old Doc Werner, he used to make regular visits out here to check on the stock, and he once told me Buddy knew more about taking care of a sick animal then he did! Said the boy had a natural gift for it. Buddy would spend days caring for a sick mule, or goat, or even a sick cowboy. Stay with them night and day fussing over them like an old hen. And he took it right hard when anyone died, man or beast. He would grieve for weeks and I don't think ever entirely stopped. I'd find him crying in the barn, and he'd just say he still missed his brothers and Da, or some old horse that had died years ago.
And he worked harder than anybody I ever seen, and he seemed to love it. I don't remember ever seeing him take a break other than to eat or sleep, and would find him up at all hours tending to the stock under his care. I of course didn't expect him to work for nothing, so I paid him the same full wages as the other hands. And he had me give every cent of it to his Ma! He only kept a little every now and then to buy treats for his charges, apples & carrots and such. And every Christmas he had some small useful present for every hand on the place. I still have a good old Barlow knife he give me one time for my birthday.
He wore the same thing all the time. Levis coveralls, a cheap cotton shirt, and a big floppy hat one of my older hands had given him years before. He loved that old hat! He mostly went barefoot to, and when I got after him to wear shoes he just had some old army brogans he'd wear without socks. That don't mean he weren't clean though! His bathtub may have been a trough, but he kept himself and his belongings neat and proper! And he always made up his bunk and kept it clean just like his Ma taught him. And every piece of tack was always spic and span and in its proper place. Like I said, boy was always neat and proper.
One day when we was in town to pick up some feed and supplies, he come along to buy some more treats for the stock. He up and disappeared somewhere, and when he came back he had the oldest most decrepit mule you ever did see! He had the biggest grin on his face too. Well I stormed off to have it out with whomever had sold him that useless old mule, only to find out the stable owner had given it to him! He told me he had come out of his office to find Buddy standing there hugging that old mule and crying! He was an ornery old codger, but when Buddy offered to buy the mule for whatever price the man wanted he said instead he just gave the old mule to him. He said the mule was going to be rendered for dog food anyway, and he figured if the boy wanted that old mule that bad then who was he to refuse! I give the old coot $5.00 for his trouble, and we took that old mule back with us. On the way back Buddy, who was usually pretty quiet, told me that old mule was his Pa's old plow mule Suzie, and he'd missed her ever since Ma sold the farm. It was like a family reunion to him! He gave that old mule a stall of her own, and spent his own money to care for her, he never would take a cent from me! That old mule knew more comfort in her last few months then she'd known in her whole life! When she died Buddy was devastated, and he cried like a little boy for days.
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After that he started a kind of retirement home for old cow ponies and plow mules. Ones nobody wanted, or were too old to work. He added some more stalls onto the barn using scrap lumber and nails he bought hisself. Some of the older hands helped him out, and they did a right nice job. At any one time he'd have up to six old worn out useless horses or mules, and even a donkey or burro, that he took care of at his own expense until they died. More than one old cowhand would turn his old mount and friend over to Buddy to spend its last few years when it was too old to ride. Buddy never turned down any of them no matter how worn out or sick. And Buddy was always finding gifts of cash, feed, good saddles and other tack he could use or sell and other things to help pay for the upkeep of his "retirement home". He'd just find them in a stall or left next to the barn door in the night. None of them old cow pokes would admit to doing any such thing though.
And that's another thing about Buddy. He loved the animals, and they loved him right back! I ain't never seen nothing like it! He would play with the fouls and lambs for hours, and if he was big and clumsy he was always gentle, and he could run like the wind! I never seen a man who could run so fast! And once I even went out to the barn late one night to find him playing with a family of raccoons! Turns out he was letting them live in the loft! I swear he could talk to them, and they could talk to him!
One night one of the cow ponies come back without its rider, and we went out and looked for hours but finally had to give up because it took to blowing something awful. Buddy didn't like to ride for some reason, but he got on that pony and it took him right to its rider in a pitch dark howling night of sleet and rain. We'd all done give up when here comes Buddy, leading the pony with the cowboy strapped to the saddle. Turns out the cowboy had near brained himself on a tree branch in the dark, and somehow Buddy found him when no one else could. And that hand had been the one that gave Buddy more grief and taunted him more than any other! And Buddy risked his life to save him without even being asked. After that the hands never teased him no more, and if a new hand did he didn't for long as the old hands would have a "talk" with him about it. And the hands also knew that Buddy would have a hot pot of coffee ready anytime of the day or night for any hand who came in cold and tired, and a nice warm stall for their ponies.
The one thing Buddy wouldn't tolerate no way, no how, was the abuse of animals. He always knew if a cowboy was riding his horse too hard, or neglecting it. He had ways of getting the point across to the owner or rider too. They'd end up with a dose of salts in their coffee or canteen, and more than one cowpoke spent some very disappointing time in the outhouse. Or for some reason their girth or other piece of tack would break and they'd have a nasty fall. As soon as they started taking good care of their mounts these mysterious accidents would stop!
Now some say he might have been queer for animals or something like that since he never showed no interest in girls or getting married. But they were wrong, I never seen anything like that in almost forty years. It's just that he loved animals, and I do believe he got along with them better than he ever did with us humans. He just didn't quite fit in with our world. I offered him a room in the main house more than once, but he always turned me down so he could stay in the
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stable with his "family". He wouldn't have been happy anywhere else! I would find him leaning against the flank of some old mule or horse, sound asleep! And them animals never minded! They'd nuzzle and lip them just like another horse! And there weren't nothing unnatural about it, you just knew it was right!
Then come that horrible winter of 1905! Never seen another like it, snow deeper then I'd ever seen in my life. And it was hard on everyone, especially the animals. Lost more head that one winter then all the others combined. Buddy stayed out in the barn as he always did even though it was almost freezing inside. He had a little pot-bellied stove in the room some of the hands had built for him, and he probably would have been nice and toasty, but he kept the door to the room open so most of the heat would go out into the main stable! And he slept most nights in a stall with any animal that was in distress to try and keep it warmer. He saved more stock that winter then I'd have thought possible.
Then came a terrible night I'll never forget. It was right in the middle of a three day blizzard, and all of a sudden one of the hands came to tell me there was a horrible row going on in the stable but no one could get in because the doors were bolted from the inside, and the other doors were buried under the snow! I grabbed my old Henry, threw on a coat, and ran to the barn with the other hands. I knew what that sound was the second I heard it, only a mountain lion roared like that! And it was fighting something. I figured it was after one of the horses or mules! We managed to break down the door, and found a scene of horror.
Buddy was fighting that cat with his bare hands! He had it pinned and was trying to keep it from getting loose. I put five rounds in that big cat before it was dead! It seemed the cat had come in through the loft window, and had tried to go after one of the colts, and Buddy had been fighting it off until we arrived! He had been horribly mangled, but his only concern was the colt! He wouldn't let us treat him until he had checked to make sure his "family" was OK! We couldn't get the Doc in this kind of weather, so my second wife and I stitched him up best we could. He was horribly mauled by that cat. I don't see how he fought for so long with all the blood loss and wounds! It was a miracle that he even survived! The hands and I took turns watching over him, and more than once we'd wake up to see one of the mules or other livestock standing next to him like they were keeping watch too, and we never did figure how they got out of their stalls!
Come spring it was clear that even with all our care Buddy was dying. I'd figure he was about maybe 55 years old by then, but he was still a big strong man until that cat tore him all up. He kept getting infections, and finally pneumonia set it, and the old Doc said it was only a matter of time. He lived long enough to see the new foals being born, and we would bring the new ones to him for him to see. It made him so happy. I had been spending more and more time with him as his time grew nearer, and it was hard on me as he was the closest thing to a son I'd ever had. He'd wake up to find me keeping watch, would smile with that big dumb grin of his, and go back sleep. Even at the end he was more concerned for his "family", making me promise to take care of all his old friends. I told him it weren't necessary, that I'd do that anyway! And he just held my hand and said
"I know Pa!"
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The end came late one night, and I saw the strangest but most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life! I woke to find all of the animals in the barn were standing by the door to his room, and they had never made a sound. I never did figure out how they got loose from their pens and stalls. They all stood there as solemnly as there were in a church. Buddy was having trouble breathing, and
I could tell it wouldn't be much longer. Then an old mule mare walked up to him and rubbed her muzzle against his face, and began to gently nuzzle and lip him. I knew something very special was happening, so I didn't budge, just kept watching. Buddy finally gave one last shudder, and passed on with no more pain, the old mare still quietly gently nuzzling him the way mothers nuzzle their fouls. She gave a long sad sigh, and the other mules and horse all let out soft whinnys of grief at the exact moment Buddy died. Then I fell back asleep, and I still can't say honestly to this day if it was a dream or not.
When I woke up Buddy had a peaceful smile on his face, and every animal was back in its stall. We buried Buddy along with a few other hands we'd lost over the years, and the rest of the hands chipped in to buy him a right nice stone. It says "ROBERT DRISCOLL, "OUR BUDDY", beloved son of Patrick and Clara Driscoll, beloved friend of the Bar-X Crew." I think he'd have liked it. We had old cowhands from over a hundred miles away come to pay their respects when they heard he'd died. For years after I'd see some old saddle tramp up there on the hill just standing there with his hat in his hands, and sometimes someone would leave wild flowers on his grave.
Then not much else happened until the next fouling season. I had thought the old mare I had seen comforting Buddy at the last was too old to have another foul, but I was wrong. It was soon apparent she was pregnant. When her time to drop her foal came I made sure I was there as I was worried she might have problems, and she was sweet old thing. But she dropped her foal slick as you please. When I left she was washing and nuzzling the foal while it slept. It was the finest little Jack colt you ever saw! That little colt was on his feet faster then I'd ever seen, and just a few days later when I went to check them he came up to me and put his head in my lap, and looked at me with the most beautiful innocent eyes you ever saw! I almost had a heart attack, because those eyes were identical to Buddy's! And all the hands seemed to agree with me! And so of course we named him Buddy!
And that Mule grew up to be one of the biggest, strongest, hardest working animals I had ever did see! And he took care of his herd! More than once he drove off feral dogs or coyotes trying to get at a foul or lamb. And he was sweet and gentle, never ornery or mean. He was always the first pick by the hands for
a hard or long job, and he never once complained. Once he saved a hand and his mount from a quicksand bog down by the river. The hand swears he threw his lariat to the edge of the bog, and Buddy took it in his mouth and pulled the cowboy and his pony free!
Buddy lived longer than any other mule or horse I've ever heard about, and he was strong and active right up until the very end! He couldn't work the last few years, but he still kept an eye on the foals and other young animals. He finally went down one day for the last time, and I sat up with him all night because one of my friends was dying, didn't matter to me if they were men or an animal, they
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were all part of my family. After he closed those beautiful innocent eyes for the last time I finally fell asleep. And again I woke up to find the barn full of animals who came to say goodbye to their friend. They all gave him a final last nuzzle and lick, his old team mates standing vigil. And again when he finally took his last breath, they all gave soft whinny's of grief, and then went back to their stalls. When I woke up Buddy was dead, and I cried for only the fourth time in my life. We buried him next to our other Buddy, and the hands carved him a stone on their own, it said "Buddy", Best Dam Mule that Ever Lived". I know he'd have liked it, and I can think of no greater praise from a cowboy.
I firmly believe to this day that Buddy the man, and Buddy the Mule, were one in the same. I feel that he had been meant to be a Mule from the start, but that somewhere there was a mess up and he ended up as a man. Then when he died that old mare took his soul into her womb so that he could be reborn and live the life he had been meant to live. You ask any hand that knew them both and they'll tell you the same thing. You see, both Buddy the man, and Buddy the mule had one blue, and one brown eye! The most beautiful eyes I've ever seen! I truly believe that even God can make mistakes, but that he corrected that mistake with a small miracle that cold morning in the stable when Buddy died.
The old rancher died early in the morning two days later, and when he breathed his last every mule and horse on the ranch threw back their heads and let out whinny's of grief. And his hands buried him next to his old friend Buddy, both the man and the mule. And someone still leaves wild flowers on their graves
END
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