Ol' Mossy Horns

He was what most cowboys would call a bunch-quitter, a renegade, an outlaw, because he had eluded capture for years. No one was sure how old he was. He had been affectionately named "Ol' Mossy Horns" by the local hands. He had roamed the sage covered high desert region of northeastern Nevada for as long as anyone in the area could remember. More of a legend than real-life, his story had grown and grown until many, since only a few had ever even laid eyes on the big brute, claimed he was a ghost. However, he HAD been seen. He'd been chased from time to time and almost caught, but after he turned back on the unfortunate roper, turning he and his trusty stead over on their heads, many a rope had been surrendered to him as he ran off for the high country. After all, they make more ropes every day. Bones take a while to heal. It was assumed he had been worked as a baby, for he had a big notch on the top side of his right ear leaving it dangling as he ran and he was definitely a steer. His horns were wide and hung lopsided with the left one broken off just at the tip.

His legend came up in conversation at a little cafe in Filer, Idaho just across the Nevada line. Several old men were talking about encounters they or someone they knew had with the old steer, when unnoticed by the group, two young buckaroos walked in and sat at a corner booth. They wore their hats wide and flat and their shirts buttoned all the way to the collar. Their Levi's were cuffed up a few inches over the tops of their boots and spurs. One wore packers, the other, tall heeled fancier boots but both pair were worn from days standing in a stirrup. Though they were young it was obvious to anyone observing that they were no greenhorns. When it came to horses and cows they were wise, or at least experienced beyond their years. I'm sure their egos were even bigger than their ability, but everyone who knew them, knew what they were capable of. Wild and tough, they were up to any challenge if it had to do with horseback work. They could ride anything with hair and catch anything a sixty foot rope could reach from the seat of a custom saddle.

They had heard the stories of Ol'Mossy Horns and so they leaned toward the old codgers for information. The stories lasted from the trip to the salad bar, the chicken fried steak, and all the way through the peach cobbler they had for desert.

They looked at each other with the same gleam in their eyes and without saying a word, they got up. They walked over to the table of old men and begin to ask questions about the mean old steer. Once it was all said and done, with laughter and teasing from the old men, the challenge was on. The old men promised to notify next of kin and bury them beside their dear old mommas when they came to destruction trying to bring in the heathen bovine critter. They just laughed and talked cocky and big when they said they'd have him ground up into hamburger and make each of them have a bite.

Early the next morning, they set out. Hauling a trailer with three horses each behind their 1974 flatbed Ford dually pickup, they left out headed for the huge government allotment covering over one hundred thousand acres of sage, hills, arroyos, and rocks. They would spend the first several days stalking, tracking, looking for sign, and using binoculars more than their long ranch ropes. Early one morning they slowly topped a hill to find a small wash running with a trickle of water about two hundred yards below them to the west. With the sun to their backs but the wind in their favor he stood there drinking and did not notice them until they were almost on top of him. They had their horses at a dead run down the embankment swinging big loops of twine over their heads with extra coils in their hands for throwing long distance. Startled but already at a disadvantage, he jumped up, water dripping from his muzzle, and darted up the far side of the creek bank. He topped out over the top of the sage covered flat just out of reach but their horses were fast and they were ready. They gave chase and put up a steady fight as their horses jumped over sage and rocks. They left that to their mounts as their full, undivided attention was on Ol' Mossy Horns. As they gained territory on him time seemed to stand still. All those who had gone before, all the ropes thrown around his neck over the years, the horses rode down, and the men bruised and battered had all come to this moment in time when Snuffy Smith and Blake Davis set out to make a name for themselves.

Snuffy threw his loop first and it fell over the big horns and fell around the big-boned shoulders of the steer. He held his coils and made sure Blake was in position before he turned his dallies around the mule-hide wrapped post horn on his wade saddle. Blake's long taps on his stirrups rattled as he punched his spur rowels into the sides of the grulla dun. What that big old outlaw needed was a good stretching out but they couldn't bring him in headed and healed. They needed to rope him on the horns and get him necked up to a cottonwood tree just ahead near another curve in the creek. Blake's loop, using every inch of the extra coil landed over his horns as well and then as they both dallied and begin to try and stop him the fight was on. A crippled horse, a broken saddle tree, two lost ropes and a broken arm later, sadly the two went home in defeat. The old devil had once more eluded his predators.

The legend of Ol' Mossy Horns is told and told from Arizona to Canada of all the times he eluded capture. It was known from generation to generation how the ones who brought in that hide would be famous. Their names would be spoken in reverent tones from the mouths of cowboys and buckaroos alike. But the names of Snuffy and Blake would be spoken only in the company of all the others who had tried and failed. Though the old cowboys at the small cafe would not have to eat hamburgers from the old steer, there would be no humble pie served either. Though they had come back empty handed and the outlaw still ran free, they had added to the legend and the repertoire of stories. As they walked in the front door of the cafe, they weren't seated at a corner booth. There were no sneers or laughter directed towards the two brave young buckaroos. They were given a place of honor at the long table amongst the old hands, who would say, "Hey boys, tell us about the time you two went after Ol' Mossy Horns."

They would tell the story over and over again. And sadly it ended with the steer getting away. This time!