Enjoy,
Carl
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| Sketch by Frederic Remington |
A pale rider dismounts from his horse, slips his rifle from the saddle and walks with mincing steps along a rocky ledge jutting high above a canyon—a stone finger of God pointing to the North Star. Shadow and twilight crisscross the trail. The rider freezes, not sure if his next step is on land or air; so he cups his lips and mimics a coyote yap; an owl hoots back at the two o’clock position. The callers reunite, shake hands then move toward the canyon edge. Peeking over the rim their gaze falls on a pair of railroad tracks bending around the belly of the mountain. They wait. The rider checks and reloads his rifle while his companion slowly draws in, hand over hand, a tethered line.
Within minutes, the dim outline of a bull appears on the tracks. The beast’s black hide, cloaked by an even blacker night, is completely invisible except for the faint, ivory glow of its horns and the spark of its flinty, Spanish eyes. The hulk lumbers slowly over the rails; it senses a vague danger but edges forward regardless. It can’t turn back. It is snared by unseen forces. Small, invisible tugs on its horns jerk him gently forward and the perfumed allure of freshly cut melons floats on the wind—the sweet, sticky aroma stab all seven of its stomachs with pangs of hunger deeper than any fear can fathom.
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| Sketch Courtesy of clipart-library.com |
The whistle of the Southern Pacific train blows across the canyon along with the chug and spit of steam-driven pistons. Engine 109’s crests the Cuesta Grade with a payload of ten boxcars; the engineer yanks a handle checking the breaks, making them shriek like a saw blade through a wood knot. The train’s cowcatcher sweeps over the tracks kicking out stray rocks and limbs as it picks up more speed on every downhill yard.
At the second whistle, the bull’s ears prick up; its snout flares at the steely hum now vibrating under its hooves. Even the sleeping poppies nested between the rails awake, their blond petals tremble with helpless alarm. The taurean beast sniffs at the flowers, then in one sweeping bite rips off their heads; devouring them with the same savagery of a minotaur plucking virgins off an altar.
“Hear That? Another train whistle!” hooted a tense Eddie.
“Hush your hole Eddie. Don’t spook ‘em,” whispered an even tenser Jake.
Jake took out his pocket watch—its ticking hands rounding up seconds like a band of mustangs, “Kiss my ass this watch is fast! Eddie, nudge the bull on a little faster. He’s about to catch the Twelve O’clock Mail Express ten minutes early.”
Eddie worked a pair a fishing lines from above with the fingered dexterity of a master puppeteer. His hands gingerly pulled and jogged two thin, leashes tethered to the bull’s horns as he coxed a thousand pounds of stubborn Iberian hide up the tracks one hoof at a time.
“Careful!” warned Jake. “One hard pull and the strings snap. Tug ‘em no heavier than a blue jay snagging flies. Look! He’s about to reach the basket of melons.”
Eureka! The bull dove its snout into the waiting prize: sliced watermelon, honeydew and cantaloupe—heaven never tasted so sweet! Jake crouched and took a comfortable kneeling position behind a boulder. He then cocked back the trigger of his 25/35 rifle, laid the hexagon barrel over the stone, peered down through its buckhorn sights drawing a bead on the animal’s skull.
“Jake, say again why I got to manage the strings?” asked Eddie.
Without breaking his aim, Jake replied, “First, you’re too stupid to say no. Second, I’m the better shot. When that engine lantern rounds the curve, I’ll have a bullet in the bull’s brain one second before the cowcatcher sweeps him off the rails—I‘ll drop him the second he see’s the lamp light.”
“I hope that’s the last thing he sees,” Eddie said with a worried tinge.
Jake rebutted, “I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again, the bull’s got to strike the catcher and be thrown in clear view of the engineer so’s a report is filed—No report, no compensation claim. We can’t have the animal bolting off the rails at the very last second, can we? Don’t go yella on me now Eddie—think of the wedding.”
Tomorrow afternoon celebrated the wedding feast of Eddie's brother, and as the best man, he promised to provide the barbecue meat for nearly one hundred participants and therefore a steer must die. Truth be told, times were hard and Eddie couldn’t spare the beef. When he told Jake of his distress, Jake quoted the Southern Pacific Railroad policy: Section 24, Item 6 of Book Nine:
After a legitimate claim has been registered, reviewed and certified, the railroad shall offer fair market value to any second party of the first part, whose livestock is unintentionally killed or maimed buy Southern Pacific Railroad—or something to that effect.
“Eddie, I have pasture land near the tracks and you have a wanderlust steer. Sound’s like a perfect calamity in the making,” opined Jake.
“You mean I can barbecue my steak and eat it too?
“More than that, you get meat pre-tenderized with a hundred dollar payout, compliments of the S&P Railroad.”
Convincing the bull to walk along the tracks was hard fare. The animal, feisty with Spanish blood, refused to be lead by a leash or let alone walk a straight line. It took nearly two weeks of training, first with an iron chains, then ropes and finally strings to teach the bull to walk along the train tracks—its every step coaxed by a basket of cut melons.
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| Sketch Courtesy of clipart-library.com |
Oh how the best laid schemes of bulls and men stampede! The train turned the corner, its yellow beam halved the canyon darkness with one fell swoop. The bull jerked up, snorted and with true fury and fire of its Iberian blood, bellowed, tossed its head, pawed at the earth, lowered its horns and charged forward with eyes wide open. The engineer, spotting the animal pulled at the whistle and opened the engine throttle, then braced for the impact. The bull ramrodded the cowcatcher crumpling it like an accordion; its horns sliced into the grill sending a shock wave rippling down the boxcars. The impact pole vaulted the bull forward onto the nose of the train wedging between smoke box and a guardrail—1000 pounds of beef just swept off the rails! By the time Engine 109 rolled into the SLO Depot, the animal was pronounced DOA. Train mechanics dislodged the tangle of horns and iron with crowbars and sent the head to be stuffed and mounted and barbecued the rest. They later nailed both bull head and the crumpled cowcatcher to the wall P.C. Roundhouse where the legend of the ‘Toro Bravo’ grew far and wide with every telling.
“Damn that Spanish hide! The beast bolted! I missed the shot!”
“Jake, the bull done . . . he done . . . he done kill himself!” said Eddie clasping his hands about his head in disbelief. “An entire bull, just picked up and carted off!”
“Eddie” Jake belly laughed, “Never challenge a bull from the front, a horse from the rear or two fools from any direction! I propose we opt for the lamb tomorrow—In honor of the Greek bride of course!”
