JUST REMEMBERING AN OLD FRIEND
Last year at the start of summer in Arizona I started finding dead cows every now and then; they had been killed cleanly and were partially eaten. They didn't last long in the desert heat by the time I found them they was pretty much gone back to dust,
The ground was as hard as concrete and there were only faint tracks, actually they were more smudges than anything. Not many predators can kill a long horn cow or even a mix. They are born mean and they work at it as well. A long horn is like a cape buff if you take to hunting them. They'll double back on you and start stalking you and I can tell you that being stalked by a 1200 pound steer with a horn spread of 6-8 feet is no picnic.
This went on for about 6 weeks or so before I finally found a good track that I could ID. It was a painter and a big one as well. From his track I figured him to be about 250 pounds or so and about 8 feet from tip of nose to end of tail.
I had seen his tracks around before for years whenever I came back to Arizona on leave. He was a big male and had never taken after livestock before which made me think that he was hurt somehow and couldn't go after his usual prey.
I tracked him for a couple of hours until I lost him in some lose gravel but I was pretty sure I knew where he was heading for. I left him alone for a couple of days and then took out before first light a couple of days later. I took my old red stallion and Buster (one of Becca's dogs) with me. He's desert born and bred and can and will tackle anything. Usually Buster and Rufus stay with the Twins but I figured I needed his nose to help me track the painter.
Got to where I had lost him a couple of days earlier and then let Buster do whatever he was going to do. He sniffed around a bit and took off heading for a canyon about 5 miles away. I let him run, I knew he would be alright and I knew that if the painter turned on him he was big enough to take care of himself.
Didn't take long until he was out of sight but every now and again I'd hear him howl (he was just letting me know where he was). I knew I wouldn't reach them before it got dark so along about sundown I made a dry camp and settled in to watch the stars and the goings on in the heavens. Saw a lot of things that night, a lot of shooting stars (Becca said that shooting stars were the spirits of soldiers going home to their Gods).
Saw the Night Eagle as he crossed in front of Mother Moon and heard the Night Hawk on the fly. Heard the Chuckawalla grumpin; all in all a rather peaceful night in the desert. I was in the saddle before first light and heading to where I thought Buster and the Old One would be. (I had taken to calling him the Old One because my best guess to his age was that he was about 22-25 years old and that is rare for a painter to live that long ).
He had survived for almost 25 years on his own there in the Great Sonoran Desert and that was no mean feat. He was desert wise and had always fought shy of man. That's why I figured that he was hurt; he had taken to coming close to man to eat. If it hadn't been for all of the little one's at the main house, I would have just let him be, I'll begrudge no animal something to eat but I just couldn't take a chance with him and the little ones.
Along about sunup I come up to him and Buster. He was up a tree just laying there like he was waiting for me and Buster was sound asleep in the shade. As I got closer I could see that his right hind leg had been busted just above the knee and had healed crooked. He couldn't run or jump like he could before which was why he had taken to going after livestock.
He just sat there in that tree as I rode up and looked at me with eyes that seem to say, "I'm glad it's you old timer and not some young buck." I pulled up shy of the tree and proceeded to talk to him. We talked of the old days and those who had gone before us. We talked for quite a spell until the sun topped the far peaks, he turned his head to look at what we both knew was his last sunrise.
As he turned his head away from me, I put a bullet in his heart, He never knew what happened. His last memory on this side was of the Arizona sun rising. In a way it was like shooting myself, or some of the other old timers I know or have known. His time was over and he met his God with more dignity than most humans do.
I fetched him down out of the tree and took him about a quarter-mile away to a small promontory that overlooked a canyon that had been his home. I dug him a nice deep grave and wrapped him in a saddle blanket and laid him to rest so that his spirit could overlook his home. I covered him with rocks and made a marker for him. He didn't deserve to be dug up by the coyotes and such and if anyone else ever came to that place I wanted them to know about him.
I said some words over him in Apache and Comanche and told him to save a place for me when my time comes around. Then I saddled up and headed for home. That night the desert seemed empty and the stars did not seem as bright. At least he knew that he was respected and that he would be missed. I miss him, I really do.