As far as I know, she came from Wyoming. Some say it was Montana. She rode one of the finest mustang paints to ever be roped off a prairie, leastways that I had ever laid eyes on. As we would come to learn later, the horse had originally been a part of the wild mustang herd in the Pryor Mountains south of Billings along the Montana-Wyoming border. She had gentled the stallion herself and the end result was not being able to tell where the cowgirl began and the horse left off or even the other way around. Together, the two shared a bond in both mind and body that most cowboys could only envy. It was always something special and a near true marvel to watch her and that big mustang work a stray cow back to the herd.
Her rigging and saddle were plain at a short glance but a closer look revealed a style and taste bred from knowing and it would only be my humble opinion but I'm inclined to believe any self-respecting cowboy with good sense would feel the same. The headstall and bosal she preferred were a custom made combination of woven leather and horse hair and while both fit the mustang like a soft work glove, they were also crafted in such a fashion as to give commands without harshness or strain, not that the horse needed either. Her saddle displayed a ribbon of small, hand-tooled roses along the rear of the cantle, with a matching loop bordering the edges of both fenders, each one beginning and ending above the stirrups which were both shrouded with a set of tapaderos, hand made from deep in the heart of Mexico, testament to Spanish saddle makers and leather workers who still carry on time honored and old world traditions. At the middle of each tapadero was an inlaid flowering rose, about the size of a small child's hand, with an embedded silver concho, hand carved as the center of the flower. A few of the boys thought her riggings were a bit frilly with all them roses but the plain truth was, when the lady would finish pulling the cinch tight, gather the reins and climb aboard that dancing mustang, to this old cowboy, frilly just never came to mind. And besides, I admired all them roses although I didn't know entirely why but it was enough just to admit to myself that I did.
The five weeks she spent working with us during a cattle roundup in the Santa Fe mountains a year ago last spring was a time me and the boys still talk about like it was yesterday. She won our hearts, our respect and while she was at it, I'll be damned if she didn't go and change our way of thinking too when it came to just being a cowboy. In plain and short words, to a man, we all felt inspired to give an honest account of ourselves by doing the work better than just fair because our way of life was something worth being darned proud of doing and doing right. Something I reckon most of us had forgotten until she came along. And none of that came about because she was a woman or that any of us felt our cowboy pride was somehow being threatened, I reckon it was mostly from working next to someone who truly loved the occupation, understood it's values and held close its traditions, and with no questions asked.
Working along side the lady from Wyoming, Montana or wherever she hailed from, that spring of 1970 is a memory I find pleasing. Me, the men and her, day after glorious day a-chasing down strays, fetching out critters tangled deep in the sage, along with sorting, calf branding and such. At night, around the campfire, she spoke about her admiration of cowboys she had met, those she worked along side and could even tell you why one ranch was better operated or how it was worse than the next. She would recount stories of summer roundups below the Great Divide in Colorado, winters on the rugged plains of Nebraska and even time spent with the Dakota Indians in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Hell, it was if she came out of some western dime store novel and we were like a bunch of kids, asking one question after another. Night after night our cowboy pride was quickly set aside for another story.
After the spring round-up, she loaded up the mustang and headed off to a wild horse gathering over near Wells, Nevada. The day she left, all the men including myself, gathered around while she was packing away the last of her tack. We each took turns shaking her hand, wishing her good luck and made her promise to come back for another stay. I remember the last thing she said to me as she was putting that rose covered saddle away : "Always ride from the heart cowboy, and the rest is roses..." And damned if she wasn't right. I reckon it ain't the worst thing, being a cowboy... or a cowgirl.
Monte Walsh - ArizonaTerritory 2006
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