Bucked Off Three Times
One spring in my 20s, I was invited to work for Mr. Buster Welch. His grandson had invited me to come out for a week and work calves. I grew up in the cutting horse industry and was no stranger to Buster’s esteem or accomplishments on horseback. Getting to work for him was an honor and I couldn’t say yes fast enough. I loaded my string, which included a new horse of mine I called “Spook.” Spook was a large bald-faced sorrel with a flaxen mane and tail and four white stockings. He was plenty flashy and big for a three-year-old. I hadn’t taken him outside too much but figured he needed some miles and that this would be the place for that opportunity.
Buster’s ranch was out of Snyder, Texas, right about where the cotton fields drop off into an abyss. You wouldn’t think that country is as rough as it is peering at it from the highway, but you get off those old farm roads, and it gets pretty breaky. It boasts tangles of mesquite, cedar and deer trails woven through red dirt canyons.
The sorrel gelding and I were two days into the works, which translated to making plenty of big circles in rough country. When we got to the Westcamp pens on the second day, he was starting to finally get tired. It was my turn to rope, so after the fire was built and the irons were hot, I got back on Spook to start dragging calves to the fire. It was right at about the sixth calf that the sorrel blew up. I mean a head-to-the-ground squalling type of blow UP. I remember trying to get my dallies off, and every time he’d go up, he would spin, causing the rope that connected us to the calf to wrap around me, eventually gong around the back of my neck. Of course, he was still blowing and kicking over the branding fire. It seemed to go on for a bit, and every time I tried to kick loose and bail ship, I’d get sucked back on again from the tightened rope. Eventually, I ended up on the ground near the fire with the flash of a white hoof going past my head. I gathered my thoughts, realizing I had no broken bones, only sporting a rope burn across the back of my neck. Buster Welch getting to see me get in a bronc wreck over his fire wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped for.
That next day around 4 a.m., we all sat around the kitchen table at Westcamp, waiting for eggs. Buster pulled in to join the crew for breakfast. Everyone said their good mornings as they took turns at the coffee pot. I was hiding in my cup when Buster came up behind me and handed me something. It was burn ointment for my neck. I laughed and thanked him. He asked about the horse, and then he told me a story that had happened to him in his youth. Breakfast was ready, and then we roped horses in the dark.
That winter, I ran into Buster at a horse show in Fort Worth. I sat with him and another notable horseman and listened to Buster retell the story of how I got bucked off three times. I ended up working for Buster a few more times after that, and I started taking a tape recorder with me and would get him to tell me stories about ranches, broncs and horsemen. I’ve still got the scar across the back of my neck from the bronc wreck.
I sure hope it gave Buster something to giggle about that day.
This article was originally published in the June 2023 issue of Western Horseman.
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