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Self-taught composer, tenor (opera, art songs, folk..) and violinist. A humanist. Basic words: love, humility, compassion, tolerance, humour. JOURNEY OF THE HEART, collection of 163 ...
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Poet a dreamer dreaming of a peacefull happy caring world who hopes his words can cause a change
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Peter Robert Hamilton is a published poet and musician that also writes short stories, songs and novels. He has a deep interest in art, anime ...
Poems
Jim Sularz Jul 2012
Six Men Dead
Jim Sularz
Jul 2012
© 2011 (by Jim Sularz)
(The true tale of Frank Eaton – “Pistol Pete”)
At the headwaters of the Red Woods branch,
near a gentle ***** on a dusty trail.
On an iron gate, at the Twin Mounds cemetery,
a bouquet of dry sunflowers flail.
In a grave, still stirs, is a father’s heart,
that beats now to avenge his death.
Six times, murdered by cold blooded killers,
six men branded for a son’s revenge ….
Rye whiskey and cards, they rode fast and hard,
the four Campseys and the Ferbers.
With malicious intent, they were all Hell bent
to commit a loving father’s ******.
When the gunsmoke had cleared, all their faces were seared,
in the bleeding soul of a grieving son.
Ain’t nothin’ worse, than a father’s curse,
to fill a boy with brimstone and Hell fire!
Young Eaton yearned and soon would learn,
the fine art of slinging lead.
Why, he could shoot the wings off a buzzin’ horsefly,
from twenty paces, lickety split!
Slightly crossed eyed, Frank had a hog-killin’ time,
at a Fort Gibson shootin’ match.
Upside down, straight-on and leanin’ backwards,
he out-shot every expert in pistol class.
By day’s end when the scores were tallied,
Frank meant to prove at that shootin’ meet.
That he would claim the name of the truest gun,
and they dubbed him - “Pistol Pete.”
In fact, Pistol Pete was half boy, half bloodhound,
a wild-cat with two 45’s strapped on.
In District Cooweescoowee - bar none,
he was the fastest shot around!
Pistol Pete knew his dreaded duty had now arrived,
to hunt down those who killed his Pa.
He vowed those varmints would never see,
a necktie party, a court of law.
Where a man is known by his buckskin totem,
in hallowed Cherokee land.
There, frontier justice and Native pride,
help deal a swift and heavy hand.
Pete was quick on the trail of a killer,
just south of Webber’s Falls.
Shannon Champsey was a cattle rustler,
a horse thief, and a scurvy dog!
Pete ponied up and held his shot,
to let Shannon first make a move.
The next time he’d blinked, would be Shannon’s last,
to Hell he’d make his home.
With snarlin’ teeth and spittin’ venom,
Pete struck fast like a rattlesnake.
Two bullets to the chest in rapid fire,
was Shannon’s last breath he’d partake.
Pete galloped away, hot on the next trail,
left Shannon there for a vulture's meal.
Notched his guns, below a moon chasing sun,
and one wound to his soul congealed.
There’s a saying out West, know by gunslingers best,
that’ll deep six you in a knotty pine casket.
One you should never forget, lest you end up stone dead,
“There’s always a man – just a shade faster.”
Doc Ferber was next to feel Pete’s hot lead,
“Fill your hand, you *******!”
With little remorse, Pete shot him clear off his horse,
left him gunned down in a shallow ditch.
After getting reports, Pete headed North,
to where John Ferber hunkered down.
A Missouri corner, in McDonald County,
filled with Bible thumpers in a sinner’s town.
Pete rode five hundred miles to shoot that snake,
with two notches, he welcomed a third.
He carried his cursed ball and chains,
to **** a man, he swore with words.
But John Ferber was plastered, and he didn’t quite master,
deuces wild, soiled doves and hard drinkin’.
Someone else would beat Pete, the day before they’d meet,
sending John slingin’ hash in Hell’s kitchen.
There’s a night rider without a father,
under a curse to settle a score.
In all, six murderous desperados,
Three men dead - now, three men more ….
Pistol Pete was now pushin’ seventeen,
just a young pup, but no tenderfoot.
With two men in the lead, he was quick on his steed,
to **** two brothers who killed his kin.
Pete rode up to their fence, with a friendly countenance,
spoke with Jonce Campsey, but asked for Jim.
“There’s a message from Doc, that you both need to hear,”
Pete readied his hands – both guns were cocked!
Pete continued in discourse, and got off his horse.
all the while in an act of pretense.
Jim came to the door and Pete read them the score,
and shot them both dead in self-defense.
With the help of the law, they verified Pete’s call,
then gathered any loot they found.
Laid Jim and Jonce out, in their rustic log house,
and burnt them both and the house to the ground.
Might have seemed kind of callous, but weren’t done in malice,
that those boys were burnt instead of swingin’.
They just sent them to Hell, sizzlin’ medium well,
besides, it “saved them a lot of diggin’.”
There was one man to go, he’d be the last to know,
that a hex is an awful thing.
That a young boy would grow, with a curse in tow,
to **** a man, was still a sin.
Pete garnered his will, with the best of his skills,
to take on the last of the Campsey brothers.
It would be three to one, Wiley and two paid guns,
Pete knew his odds were slim and he shuddered.
At nearly twenty-one, Pete knew he may have out-run,
his luck as the fastest gun.
This would be the ultimate test of his shootin’ finesse,
only a fool would stay to be outgunned.
But Pistol Pete weren’t no liver lilly,
and he loaded up his 45’s.
He rode into town with steely nerves,
maybe no one, would come out alive!
Pete knocked through that swingin’ bar-room door,
Wiley stood there with a possum eating grin.
He said, “Hey there kid, who the Hell are you?”
and Pete shouted, “Frank Eaton! You killed my kin!”
All four men drew quick, with guns a’ blazing,
Wiley got plugged first from two 45’s.
The bar-room crowd dispersed in a wild stampede,
everywhere, ricochetin’ slugs whizzed by!
When the shootin’ had stopped, there was just one man standin’
all four men got plugged, includin’ Pete.
But only a shot-up boy rode out of town that day,
and a Father’s curse, that played out complete –
was a bitter mistress to bury….
At the headwaters of the Red Woods Branch,
near a gentle ***** on a dusty trail.
On an iron gate, at the Twin Mounds cemetery,
a bouquet of morning glories flail.
In a grave, still deep, is a father’s heart,
that lays quiet in a peaceful sleep.
And six men dead, who now burn instead,
compliments of Pistol Pete!
(The true tale of Frank Eaton – “Pistol Pete”)
At the headwaters of the Red Woods branch,
near a gentle ***** on a dusty trail.
On an iron gate, at the Twin Mounds cemetery,
a bouquet of dry sunflowers flail.
In a grave, still stirs, is a father’s heart,
that beats now to avenge his death.
Six times, murdered by cold blooded killers,
six men branded for a son’s revenge ….
Rye whiskey and cards, they rode fast and hard,
the four Campseys and the Ferbers.
With malicious intent, they were all Hell bent
to commit a loving father’s ******.
When the gunsmoke had cleared, all their faces were seared,
in the bleeding soul of a grieving son.
Ain’t nothin’ worse, than a father’s curse,
to fill a boy with brimstone and Hell fire!
Young Eaton yearned and soon would learn,
the fine art of slinging lead.
Why, he could shoot the wings off a buzzin’ horsefly,
from twenty paces, lickety split!
Slightly crossed eyed, Frank had a hog-killin’ time,
at a Fort Gibson shootin’ match.
Upside down, straight-on and leanin’ backwards,
he out-shot every expert in pistol class.
By day’s end when the scores were tallied,
Frank meant to prove at that shootin’ meet.
That he would claim the name of the truest gun,
and they dubbed him - “Pistol Pete.”
In fact, Pistol Pete was half boy, half bloodhound,
a wild-cat with two 45’s strapped on.
In District Cooweescoowee - bar none,
he was the fastest shot around!
Pistol Pete knew his dreaded duty had now arrived,
to hunt down those who killed his Pa.
He vowed those varmints would never see,
a necktie party, a court of law.
Where a man is known by his buckskin totem,
in hallowed Cherokee land.
There, frontier justice and Native pride,
help deal a swift and heavy hand.
Pete was quick on the trail of a killer,
just south of Webber’s Falls.
Shannon Champsey was a cattle rustler,
a horse thief, and a scurvy dog!
Pete ponied up and held his shot,
to let Shannon first make a move.
The next time he’d blinked, would be Shannon’s last,
to Hell he’d make his home.
With snarlin’ teeth and spittin’ venom,
Pete struck fast like a rattlesnake.
Two bullets to the chest in rapid fire,
was Shannon’s last breath he’d partake.
Pete galloped away, hot on the next trail,
left Shannon there for a vulture's meal.
Notched his guns, below a moon chasing sun,
and one wound to his soul congealed.
There’s a saying out West, know by gunslingers best,
that’ll deep six you in a knotty pine casket.
One you should never forget, lest you end up stone dead,
“There’s always a man – just a shade faster.”
Doc Ferber was next to feel Pete’s hot lead,
“Fill your hand, you *******!”
With little remorse, Pete shot him clear off his horse,
left him gunned down in a shallow ditch.
After getting reports, Pete headed North,
to where John Ferber hunkered down.
A Missouri corner, in McDonald County,
filled with Bible thumpers in a sinner’s town.
Pete rode five hundred miles to shoot that snake,
with two notches, he welcomed a third.
He carried his cursed ball and chains,
to **** a man, he swore with words.
But John Ferber was plastered, and he didn’t quite master,
deuces wild, soiled doves and hard drinkin’.
Someone else would beat Pete, the day before they’d meet,
sending John slingin’ hash in Hell’s kitchen.
There’s a night rider without a father,
under a curse to settle a score.
In all, six murderous desperados,
Three men dead - now, three men more ….
Pistol Pete was now pushin’ seventeen,
just a young pup, but no tenderfoot.
With two men in the lead, he was quick on his steed,
to **** two brothers who killed his kin.
Pete rode up to their fence, with a friendly countenance,
spoke with Jonce Campsey, but asked for Jim.
“There’s a message from Doc, that you both need to hear,”
Pete readied his hands – both guns were cocked!
Pete continued in discourse, and got off his horse.
all the while in an act of pretense.
Jim came to the door and Pete read them the score,
and shot them both dead in self-defense.
With the help of the law, they verified Pete’s call,
then gathered any loot they found.
Laid Jim and Jonce out, in their rustic log house,
and burnt them both and the house to the ground.
Might have seemed kind of callous, but weren’t done in malice,
that those boys were burnt instead of swingin’.
They just sent them to Hell, sizzlin’ medium well,
besides, it “saved them a lot of diggin’.”
There was one man to go, he’d be the last to know,
that a hex is an awful thing.
That a young boy would grow, with a curse in tow,
to **** a man, was still a sin.
Pete garnered his will, with the best of his skills,
to take on the last of the Campsey brothers.
It would be three to one, Wiley and two paid guns,
Pete knew his odds were slim and he shuddered.
At nearly twenty-one, Pete knew he may have out-run,
his luck as the fastest gun.
This would be the ultimate test of his shootin’ finesse,
only a fool would stay to be outgunned.
But Pistol Pete weren’t no liver lilly,
and he loaded up his 45’s.
He rode into town with steely nerves,
maybe no one, would come out alive!
Pete knocked through that swingin’ bar-room door,
Wiley stood there with a possum eating grin.
He said, “Hey there kid, who the Hell are you?”
and Pete shouted, “Frank Eaton! You killed my kin!”
All four men drew quick, with guns a’ blazing,
Wiley got plugged first from two 45’s.
The bar-room crowd dispersed in a wild stampede,
everywhere, ricochetin’ slugs whizzed by!
When the shootin’ had stopped, there was just one man standin’
all four men got plugged, includin’ Pete.
But only a shot-up boy rode out of town that day,
and a Father’s curse, that played out complete –
was a bitter mistress to bury….
At the headwaters of the Red Woods Branch,
near a gentle ***** on a dusty trail.
On an iron gate, at the Twin Mounds cemetery,
a bouquet of morning glories flail.
In a grave, still deep, is a father’s heart,
that lays quiet in a peaceful sleep.
And six men dead, who now burn instead,
compliments of Pistol Pete!
This is another one of my Historical poems. A true story about Frank Eaton, an eight year old, who witnessed the shooting death of his father. Frank Eaton was encouraged to avenge his father's death and by the time he was 15 years old, he learned to handle a gun without equal in Oklahoma territory. You can read about this man by obtaining a copy of his book - "Veteran of the Old West - Pistol Pete (1952). Born in 1860, he lived to be nearly 98 years old. My poem describes the events surrounding Pistol Pete hunting down the outlaws that killed his father. I hope you enjoy the story.
Jim Sularz
Jim Sularz
Kurt Philip Behm
Jun 18
It had been a long idyllic two-day ride from Taos to Jackson Hole. The bike had been running well, in spite of the altitude, and the 1600 C.C. Yamaha Venture Royale handled with ease whatever the mountains had in store.
This was the second extended tour for Kurt and his twelve-year-old son, Trystan, who everyone called T.C. (Trystan Colin). They had started in Long Beach, California, and were making a long semi-circular loop through Arizona, New Mexico, and then back to Wyoming. After hiking and riding through Grand Teton National Park, they would head North through Yellowstone to Missoula Montana and ultimately reach their final northern destination — Glacier National Park.
This morning though, they would be traveling into an unknown world on the most proven and time-tested forms of transportation, horses and mules.
Teton Scenic Outfitters was the oldest guided tour company in Teton National Park. Today’s route would take four tourists on a twenty-five-mile ride deep into the park. At its highest point, the trail would be over 2000 feet above the Buffalo River. There would be two professional cowboys leading the tour. The lead rider, and boss, was a 6’ 3’’, 200 lb., ex-college football player and rodeo bulldogger named Russ. At the back was a diminutive, bow-legged, journeyman cowboy from Miles City Montana named Pete. In between there was Kurt and his son T.C., both riding horses, and two nuns from the San Cristobal Convent in Cody Wyoming, riding mules.
There were two additional mules, between Russ and TC, that were loaded down with a week’s supplies for the Teton Art Camp at the end of the trail. The Art Camp was a popular summer destination for both experienced and budding artists and depended on the supplies that Russ’s company delivered every Saturday. At 8:30 a.m., four mules and four horses started the arduous and steep ascent up the narrow trail that was carved out of the east side of the mountain.
Before leaving, Russ had said: “In some places, the trail that’s cut into the rock is less than six feet wide. Don’t let this upset you. The horses and mules do this almost every day, and they are more surefooted than any person walking. Whatever you do, DON’T try to get off along the narrow trail. We will come upon four open meadows, as we climb higher, and you can get off there, if need be, to walk a spell.”
Russ reminded everyone that they had signed a form acknowledging the risks of a mountain trail ride and that they were not afraid of heights. “Whatever you do, make sure to give the horse or mule its head. Don’t try to guide it or change its direction, it will be following closely the animal in front of it and will become upset and disoriented if you try to change its forward motion.”
Pete, who was riding in the rear, had heard this speech a hundred times before. He knew Russ would repeat it several more times as they continued their climb. He also knew something that he hadn’t shared with anyone yet. After feeling poorly for several weeks, he had traveled to the Medical Center in Idaho Falls for tests. Two days later he had the results — Cystic Fibrosis.
Pete was only 26, but his doctor had told him that with treatment he had a very good chance of living into his fifties. “What can’t I do, Doc?” Pete had asked. “Anything for right now,” the specialist advised. Just don’t get too far away from a good Medical Center, just in case. I wonder what he would think if he saw me today,” Pete mused.
The two nuns seemed to be enjoying themselves, but the one in the back, Sister Francis, directly in front of Pete, kept pulling on her right stirrup. “I’ll have to adjust that when we stop,” Pete said to himself.
At 10:30 a.m., they came to the first clearing and Russ called everyone to gather around him. The meadow was a naturally formed pocket that carved into the mountain for about 100 yards. There was tall spring grass growing as far as you could see.
“Hey T.C., whatta you think those two things are sticking above the grass about fifty yards ahead?” “I don’t know, Russ, they look like sticks.” “Well ... those sticks happen to be antlers that belong to a resting moose.” Before Russ could say another word, T.C. had spurred his horse and was headed in the direction of the moose. As T.C.’s father started to head after him, Russ grabbed his reins and said — “watch this.”
T.C. was still thirty yards from the antlers when an enormous moose stood up out of the grass. Seeing that, T.C.’s horse slammed on the brakes and T.C. went sliding off the right side of his mount. Time seemed to be frozen in place until ... BAMM!
When Russ saw the moose stand up, he withdrew the Colt Peacemaker (45) from his holster and fired a shot into the air. The horses and mules never moved, they were rifle trained, but the moose turned and ran into the woods at the far end of the meadow.
“Those things can get ornery when you take them by surprise. I didn’t think your kid had the guts to charge a moose in the open field. It’s one of the damnedest things I’ve seen in a long time. With ‘try’ like that, he’ll make a good hand.
Both cowboys dismounted and went over to where T.C. was still sitting in the grass. “Here, take this,” Russ said, as he gave T.C. a Snickers Bar from his vest pocket. “The way you got off that horse would make any bronc rider proud. Sister Marcella was filming you with her camera. It you’re nice to her, I’ll bet she’ll send you a copy of the tape.”
Hearing Russ’s words were like his birthday and Christmas all rolled into one. His rear end was a little sore, but his spirits had never been so high. “Hey T.C., if your head hasn’t swelled too much, try this on,” said Pete. Pete handed T.C. a baseball cap from his saddlebags. It was a watershed moment for both father and son as T.C. took a giant step toward manhood.
Back on the trail, Russ repeated again: “Don’t try to guide your animal, they know where they’re going.” In all the confusion, Pete had never gotten around to adjusting Sister Francis’ stirrup. It was still bothering her, and her squirming was starting to affect her mule.
“Don’t mess with that stirrup anymore, Sister. If you need to, just let your right leg hang down straight until we get to the next clearing.” Pete hadn’t finished speaking when Sister Francis pushed down again on the stirrup until it came loose and was dangling free. The momentum of her pushing down with her right leg had pulled her body across the saddle, and she was now off the mule and standing — screaming — on the right side of her mule.
Less Than A Foot From The Edge ...
“Stop screaming, Sister, and I’ll try to get to you.” Pete knew there wasn’t enough room on the trail for him to make it to the panicked nun, and he also knew he didn’t have enough strength in his upper body to pull her back if she started to fall.
Russ had heard the commotion and stopped the lead horse. He was too far in front to be of much help. Pete’s best cowboy skill was that of a header in the team roping event. The hat he had given T.C. was from the last rodeo he had won in Calgary, Alberta. Pete instinctively took the rope from his saddle horn and formed a loop. Just as he started to swing the rope, Sister Francis’ mule panicked and moved to the right pushing the nun toward the cliff. As she started to fall, Pete managed to get a loop around her head and under one shoulder. He pulled ******* the rope as she fell over the side. He quickly took three turns around the saddle horn. Pete knew he could hold it for a while without his horse moving, but if he tried to dismount, there’s no telling what the horse would do, and all three of them might go over the side.
It was just then that Pete saw something crawling between the legs of Sister Marcella’s mule. T.C. had slid off the back of his horse and crawled between the legs of his dad’s horse, the two pack mules, and Sister Marcella’s now stationary mule. When he got underneath Sister Francis’ mule, he started to talk in a gentle voice as he worked his way back to the rear. Once under Pete’s horse, he reached over the side and grabbed the rope. Luckily, Sister Francis was only three feet below the rocky ledge. With T.C.’s help, and a lot of adrenalin, she was able to get her elbows up over the edge and slowly inch her way back onto the trail. Pete held firm to the loop to make sure there was no backsliding.
T.C. and Sister Francis sat there for a long time until T.C. said: “Do you trust me, Sister?” She said that she did as T.C. said: “Ok, follow me.” Together, they crawled underneath Pete’s horse to the very back of the train. “How far is it to the next meadow, Pete?” T.C. asked. “It’s only about a half-mile, “Pete called out. “Ok, Sister Francis and I will walk the rest of the way, and we’ll meet up with you at the meadow. Pete waved ahead to Russ, who was sitting there in a mild state of shock, to get going again.
It was a hero’s welcome when T.C. and Sister Francis arrived at the meadow. “How did you know you could crawl underneath those horses and mule’s legs without getting trampled?” Russ asked.
“Well, it’s like this,” T.C. said. “My dad was raised with horses and said that a horse would never step on a man. I just figured it was the same with mules.” “And where did you get the guts to try?” asked Pete. “It wasn’t guts, I was just trying to finish what you had started. If you hadn’t gotten that rope around her, nothing that I did would have mattered at all.”
“That rope was thrown from the hand of God,” said Sister Marcella, “and today, we were all blessed to see one of his miracles in action.”
The rest of the ride was uneventful. Pete readjusted Sister Francis’ stirrup as Russ started to sing an old cowboy song. “What’s the T stand for in T.C?” asked Russ. “Trystan, my first name is Trystan, T.C. answered back. With that, every Ian Tyson song they knew was being sung at high volume with the name ‘Trystan’ interjected into every one.
T.C.’s father had never been so proud.
Kurt Philip Behm: June, 2024
This was the second extended tour for Kurt and his twelve-year-old son, Trystan, who everyone called T.C. (Trystan Colin). They had started in Long Beach, California, and were making a long semi-circular loop through Arizona, New Mexico, and then back to Wyoming. After hiking and riding through Grand Teton National Park, they would head North through Yellowstone to Missoula Montana and ultimately reach their final northern destination — Glacier National Park.
This morning though, they would be traveling into an unknown world on the most proven and time-tested forms of transportation, horses and mules.
Teton Scenic Outfitters was the oldest guided tour company in Teton National Park. Today’s route would take four tourists on a twenty-five-mile ride deep into the park. At its highest point, the trail would be over 2000 feet above the Buffalo River. There would be two professional cowboys leading the tour. The lead rider, and boss, was a 6’ 3’’, 200 lb., ex-college football player and rodeo bulldogger named Russ. At the back was a diminutive, bow-legged, journeyman cowboy from Miles City Montana named Pete. In between there was Kurt and his son T.C., both riding horses, and two nuns from the San Cristobal Convent in Cody Wyoming, riding mules.
There were two additional mules, between Russ and TC, that were loaded down with a week’s supplies for the Teton Art Camp at the end of the trail. The Art Camp was a popular summer destination for both experienced and budding artists and depended on the supplies that Russ’s company delivered every Saturday. At 8:30 a.m., four mules and four horses started the arduous and steep ascent up the narrow trail that was carved out of the east side of the mountain.
Before leaving, Russ had said: “In some places, the trail that’s cut into the rock is less than six feet wide. Don’t let this upset you. The horses and mules do this almost every day, and they are more surefooted than any person walking. Whatever you do, DON’T try to get off along the narrow trail. We will come upon four open meadows, as we climb higher, and you can get off there, if need be, to walk a spell.”
Russ reminded everyone that they had signed a form acknowledging the risks of a mountain trail ride and that they were not afraid of heights. “Whatever you do, make sure to give the horse or mule its head. Don’t try to guide it or change its direction, it will be following closely the animal in front of it and will become upset and disoriented if you try to change its forward motion.”
Pete, who was riding in the rear, had heard this speech a hundred times before. He knew Russ would repeat it several more times as they continued their climb. He also knew something that he hadn’t shared with anyone yet. After feeling poorly for several weeks, he had traveled to the Medical Center in Idaho Falls for tests. Two days later he had the results — Cystic Fibrosis.
Pete was only 26, but his doctor had told him that with treatment he had a very good chance of living into his fifties. “What can’t I do, Doc?” Pete had asked. “Anything for right now,” the specialist advised. Just don’t get too far away from a good Medical Center, just in case. I wonder what he would think if he saw me today,” Pete mused.
The two nuns seemed to be enjoying themselves, but the one in the back, Sister Francis, directly in front of Pete, kept pulling on her right stirrup. “I’ll have to adjust that when we stop,” Pete said to himself.
At 10:30 a.m., they came to the first clearing and Russ called everyone to gather around him. The meadow was a naturally formed pocket that carved into the mountain for about 100 yards. There was tall spring grass growing as far as you could see.
“Hey T.C., whatta you think those two things are sticking above the grass about fifty yards ahead?” “I don’t know, Russ, they look like sticks.” “Well ... those sticks happen to be antlers that belong to a resting moose.” Before Russ could say another word, T.C. had spurred his horse and was headed in the direction of the moose. As T.C.’s father started to head after him, Russ grabbed his reins and said — “watch this.”
T.C. was still thirty yards from the antlers when an enormous moose stood up out of the grass. Seeing that, T.C.’s horse slammed on the brakes and T.C. went sliding off the right side of his mount. Time seemed to be frozen in place until ... BAMM!
When Russ saw the moose stand up, he withdrew the Colt Peacemaker (45) from his holster and fired a shot into the air. The horses and mules never moved, they were rifle trained, but the moose turned and ran into the woods at the far end of the meadow.
“Those things can get ornery when you take them by surprise. I didn’t think your kid had the guts to charge a moose in the open field. It’s one of the damnedest things I’ve seen in a long time. With ‘try’ like that, he’ll make a good hand.
Both cowboys dismounted and went over to where T.C. was still sitting in the grass. “Here, take this,” Russ said, as he gave T.C. a Snickers Bar from his vest pocket. “The way you got off that horse would make any bronc rider proud. Sister Marcella was filming you with her camera. It you’re nice to her, I’ll bet she’ll send you a copy of the tape.”
Hearing Russ’s words were like his birthday and Christmas all rolled into one. His rear end was a little sore, but his spirits had never been so high. “Hey T.C., if your head hasn’t swelled too much, try this on,” said Pete. Pete handed T.C. a baseball cap from his saddlebags. It was a watershed moment for both father and son as T.C. took a giant step toward manhood.
Back on the trail, Russ repeated again: “Don’t try to guide your animal, they know where they’re going.” In all the confusion, Pete had never gotten around to adjusting Sister Francis’ stirrup. It was still bothering her, and her squirming was starting to affect her mule.
“Don’t mess with that stirrup anymore, Sister. If you need to, just let your right leg hang down straight until we get to the next clearing.” Pete hadn’t finished speaking when Sister Francis pushed down again on the stirrup until it came loose and was dangling free. The momentum of her pushing down with her right leg had pulled her body across the saddle, and she was now off the mule and standing — screaming — on the right side of her mule.
Less Than A Foot From The Edge ...
“Stop screaming, Sister, and I’ll try to get to you.” Pete knew there wasn’t enough room on the trail for him to make it to the panicked nun, and he also knew he didn’t have enough strength in his upper body to pull her back if she started to fall.
Russ had heard the commotion and stopped the lead horse. He was too far in front to be of much help. Pete’s best cowboy skill was that of a header in the team roping event. The hat he had given T.C. was from the last rodeo he had won in Calgary, Alberta. Pete instinctively took the rope from his saddle horn and formed a loop. Just as he started to swing the rope, Sister Francis’ mule panicked and moved to the right pushing the nun toward the cliff. As she started to fall, Pete managed to get a loop around her head and under one shoulder. He pulled ******* the rope as she fell over the side. He quickly took three turns around the saddle horn. Pete knew he could hold it for a while without his horse moving, but if he tried to dismount, there’s no telling what the horse would do, and all three of them might go over the side.
It was just then that Pete saw something crawling between the legs of Sister Marcella’s mule. T.C. had slid off the back of his horse and crawled between the legs of his dad’s horse, the two pack mules, and Sister Marcella’s now stationary mule. When he got underneath Sister Francis’ mule, he started to talk in a gentle voice as he worked his way back to the rear. Once under Pete’s horse, he reached over the side and grabbed the rope. Luckily, Sister Francis was only three feet below the rocky ledge. With T.C.’s help, and a lot of adrenalin, she was able to get her elbows up over the edge and slowly inch her way back onto the trail. Pete held firm to the loop to make sure there was no backsliding.
T.C. and Sister Francis sat there for a long time until T.C. said: “Do you trust me, Sister?” She said that she did as T.C. said: “Ok, follow me.” Together, they crawled underneath Pete’s horse to the very back of the train. “How far is it to the next meadow, Pete?” T.C. asked. “It’s only about a half-mile, “Pete called out. “Ok, Sister Francis and I will walk the rest of the way, and we’ll meet up with you at the meadow. Pete waved ahead to Russ, who was sitting there in a mild state of shock, to get going again.
It was a hero’s welcome when T.C. and Sister Francis arrived at the meadow. “How did you know you could crawl underneath those horses and mule’s legs without getting trampled?” Russ asked.
“Well, it’s like this,” T.C. said. “My dad was raised with horses and said that a horse would never step on a man. I just figured it was the same with mules.” “And where did you get the guts to try?” asked Pete. “It wasn’t guts, I was just trying to finish what you had started. If you hadn’t gotten that rope around her, nothing that I did would have mattered at all.”
“That rope was thrown from the hand of God,” said Sister Marcella, “and today, we were all blessed to see one of his miracles in action.”
The rest of the ride was uneventful. Pete readjusted Sister Francis’ stirrup as Russ started to sing an old cowboy song. “What’s the T stand for in T.C?” asked Russ. “Trystan, my first name is Trystan, T.C. answered back. With that, every Ian Tyson song they knew was being sung at high volume with the name ‘Trystan’ interjected into every one.
T.C.’s father had never been so proud.
Kurt Philip Behm: June, 2024