“Now why did you tell him all of that?”
Wes McPherson had a Fu Manchu mustache to die for. Full and just the right bit of dark hair mixed with the gray. A well-worn cowboy-style hat – felt, for all but the hot summer. His facial expression was as you’d expect from a person who expected to find one more thing to learn or one more surprise from nature. Mild-mannered and pleasant to be around.
We hauled him a few loads of hay one season. He had a mix of livestock and seemed to be friends with them all. He had a couple of retired saddle horses, one burro, a handful of Hereford steers, a few sheep and at least one goat. I never asked him why he was lacking a milk cow or two.
One delivery, made in either slick mud or some snow, we had a truck that wouldn’t move on its own. McPherson was delighted to have an excuse to start up his tracked tractor. It wasn’t a Caterpillar or a John Deere, but it was about a D2 Cat size. McPherson was wheeling it around like a kid showing off a new skateboard or bike. Positioned in front of the recalcitrant truck, he waited while someone tied the crawler and the stuck truck together with a chain.
He throttled it up a bit, tightened the chain, and, when via hand signals he understood that the truck driver was ready, he gave the little tractor more throttle and eased the hand clutch forward. The exhaust note changed as the tractor pulled against the truck. McPherson expertly applied power, and the truck was helped out of the slick spot without spinning the tracks on the slick surface.
With the truck moving on its own power, McPherson pushed the throttle full forward to stay ahead of the truck. He acted like he’d earned some bragging rights for that feat.
One trip, we had a new helper. Fellow out of high school a year or two. Once he got over almost killing himself because he was so much smarter than the experienced hay bale throwers, he was turning into reasonably good help. It seemed like every new guy on the crew had to wear himself out before he realized that there was a reason everyone else threw six or eight bales on the conveyor and then moved it closer to the hay. It takes way less effort to grab a bale and turn with it, dropping it on the conveyor than to pick it up and carry it one or two or three paces before getting rid of it.
The new guy was too high on himself to be good company. After unloading multiple trucks, McPherson invited us inside. His lady had baked cookies, knowing we were due in with hay.
Seated with the new guy between McPherson and myself, I just nonchalantly said to him, loud enough for McPherson to hear, “You’d never guess what this soft-spoken, friends-to-everyone old cowboy is capable of. Not that long ago, a couple of fellers thought they needed something that wasn’t theirs, and McPherson was between them and it. When they finally got him riled up, McPherson backhanded one of them so hard that he kicked his buddy in the face as he went down. McPherson told them to go home and ask their mama if maybe she’d finish raising them.”
McPherson didn’t say a word. The new guy looked at me, then at McPherson, thanked him for the cookies and left.
McPherson asked me why I told him such a tale. “Because it’s gonna be healthy for him to start treating everybody he meets with a little more respect. Now he wasn’t a bit out of line here, but just hearing me straight-facedly feed him that line of bull and you just sitting there and nodding your head … down the road, he may think before he spouts off and gets in trouble.” McPherson just shook his head and laughed.
Back in the ’70s, a fellow hired a high school girl to milk his cows most evenings. She had a good farm background and was involved with her school’s FFA.
A fellow who was on the farm occasionally took note of her and asked the dairyman if he’d introduce him to her. A few days later, the opportunity was there, and the introduction was made.
After the formal intro, he went on, “She’s quite the young lady. Beat out all the guys in her class riding bulls at the high school rodeo. Just got her black belt in karate. And, she was just so proud of herself when she outshot her father at the cowboy quick-draw event last month.”
After the fellow left, the young milkmaid asked why he said those things about her.
“I know that fellow well enough to know that you’ll be safer if he thinks you can put the hurt on him. Enough said?”
She nodded. “You're just like my daddy!”
