Welcome To The Bullpen
Pete Simmons Last Ride
Tim Carpenter
In the early spring of 1887 the Spur Creek outfit experienced the loss of one of its favorite cowboys. Pete Simmons had worked on the Spur Creek ranch for a long time, and his death from pneumonia had a big impact on all of us. Pete was older than most of us, and was a true cowboy in every sense of the word. He had been cowboying most of his life and had started up the Chisholm Trail with a herd when he was thirty years old. After fighting for the Confederacy in the War Between the States, he had made several trips to Dodge City, Kansas, and Ellsworth and Abilene as well.
He kept us younger cowboys spellbound with stories of life in the old days, of close calls with Comanches, outlaws, renegade trail drivers, and everything in between. He had seen and done it all it seemed to us, and we looked up to him much like young boys look up to an older brother. Pete was a gentle soul who would give you the shirt off his back and then ask to borrow a couple of dollars to buy drinks for everyone. We all loved Pete and his untimely death hit us all very hard.
There weren’t many funeral parlors in those days and most funerals were held in someone’s house, if at all. Most folks were just taken out and stuck in the ground inside a pine box, and after the preacher, if there was one available, said a few words the dirt was thrown in and that was it.
Well, Pete had been all fancied up in new duds for his final farewell, and as we sat around the bunkhouse waiting for the funeral to take place later that day, some of the boys started taking a drink or two to get them through their grief.
As luck would have it, one or two sips turned into three or four drinks, and before you know it, we were all feeling no pain. It had started out so innocently, just a sip to help you brace up to the fact that Pete wouldn’t be around anymore, and then everybody had to toast Pete’s memory their own way, and it kind of snowballed from there. The problem was, it didn’t stop there, but continued on to the point where we were no longer thinking rationally.
I must admit, to my everlasting shame, that I was guilty of imbibing too much red liquor that day, right along with my friends, and don’t recall verbatim what transpired. I will, therefore, reconstruct it as I do remember it and hope that it will suffice. Nevertheless, here’s what happened.
“Boys, I jest cain’t believe it,” Curly Hayes said sadly, taking a swig from the bottle that Ike Longmore handed to him. “Ol’ Pete has rode his last trail.”
“Yep,” Ike agreed, “it’s a downright shame. He was one o’ the best cowboys I ever did see.” Ike was beginning to feel the liquor already, and tended to get melancholy when drunk.
“I remember Pete ropin’ an ol’ mossy horned steer one time,” Frank Burnell, a Texas cowboy, intoned, “an’ it was a good thing too, ‘cause had he not latched onto thet ol’ steer when he did, I wouldn’t be here with you all today.”
“Why’s thet, Frank?” Curly asked, curious.
“Wal,” Frank said, rubbing his chin as he took the bottle from Curly, “I was draggin’ this ol’ brute outta the brush, and jest as I cleared the last little tree, my rope broke. If’n Pete hadn’t been right there, I’da been a goner, ‘cause thet steer was shore mad ‘bout then, and he was gettin’ set to charge as my horse was stumblin’ an’ about ta fall.” He took a healthy pull from the bottle and passed it back to Curly.
“Yeah, that sounds like Pete alright,” Ike offered as he grabbed the bottle away from Curly and stood up, almost losing his balance but regaining control at the last minute.
“Heah’s to the best damn cowboy thet ever forked a hoss on the Spur Creek range!” Ike almost shouted, raising the bottle high and then taking a big gulp. That started the other cowboys in the bunkhouse to standing and taking their turn, one by one swallowing a big gulp and passing the bottle on to the next fellow. Before taking a big gulp, it seemed like each cowboy had to make a loud proclamation of one kind or another and the bottle went round and round until it was empty.
By that time we were all feeling real good about Pete’s death. That’s when someone, and I don’t remember who exactly, stated that Pete should have the opportunity to take one last ride before they boxed him up, and before you know it, we were all heading over to the main house to get Pete.
Ross Jellico, the owner of the spread, and his trusted foreman, Bill Reynolds, had gone into town to make some last minute arrangements, leaving Pete lying in his pine box all alone in the parlor.
It didn’t take long to saddle up Pete’s favorite horse, and Jack Hillman, another Texas cowboy, declared that he would do the honors. That is to say, he would show Pete one last look at the Spur Creek Ranch from the hurricane deck of a bronc.
Ike and Curly, if memory serves me right, got Pete out of the coffin, dragged him outside and hoisted him up to sit in front of Jack, who was whoopin’ and hollerin’ to beat the band. We all cheered at this point in the debacle, and either our cheers, or a rake with one of Jack’s spurs, caused the horse to start rearing and bucking for all he was worth. Jack, caught by surprise, managed to hold onto Pete, and somehow stayed in the saddle like a good cowboy should. Of course, we all thought Jack was just trying to show off a little at first, and we all cheered once again, our raucous yells making the already wild horse pitch and roll that much harder.
Jack, to give him due credit, held onto Pete like a long lost brother, staying with the wild, twisting mustang, all the way through the garden fence and into the garden, located in back of the main house. The horse was going berserk by that time, either because Pete’s flailing arms and legs were scaring him, or because we kept cheering at every turn, but either way it was sure good riding on Jack’s part I must say.
After trampling the daylights out of the garden, and crashing through the fence on the other side, Jack next took Pete through a clothesline full of clothes that were drying on the other side of the house, and this made the horse lose any sanity he had left.
The horse, a paint pony named Twister, crow-hopped sideways, kicking and fishtailing every two or three hops until at last it kicked over the outhouse, which rolled over the side of a small hill and down a twenty or thirty foot embankment, ending up in the creek. To make matters worse, Chen, the Chinese cook at the time, was inside, and he came out madder than a wet hen, his silk pants down around his knees, spewing Chinese epithets at every one of us.
Undaunted, we continued to cheer Jack and Pete on, and Twister seemed like he was finally starting to enjoy it all too. Twister finally quit crow-hopping and fishtailing and started to run flat out down the road toward town, with Jack holding on to Pete, and Pete waving goodbye with both arms and legs. Ross Jellico’s laundry and clothesline went with them, trailing out behind like a banner in an Easter Day parade. We all gave one final cheer to send them off on Pete’s last ride, and after they were both over the hill and out of sight, we all retired to the bunkhouse to await their return, critiquing Jack’s style on the bucking bronco.
About thirty minutes later, the boss and his foreman came dashing into the yard in a spring wagon loaded with a few supplies, and we all could see right away, although through bleary, bloodshot eyes, that they were both mad as hell.
“Boys,” Ross said sternly, “tell me I didn’t just see Jack riding hell bent for leather across the prairie with Pete’s body!” Nobody said anything for a few seconds and if any of us were grinning at first, we lost our smiles right quick.
“Bill,” Ross said as he turned to his foreman, “you better saddle up and go fetch Jack and Pete back pronto, an’ you can bet I’ll deal with this drunken mob!”
Well, you can guess that things weren’t all fun and games that afternoon. We all paid a big price for our misguided, though well-intentioned antics. Looking back, I can honestly say that Pete did have an exciting last ride around the Spur Creek Ranch that day. And, I would like to think that even though he was gone from us, he was surely with us that day in spirit, and was looking down from above, laughing and cheering right along with us.
When my time comes to take that last ride down the ol’ trail, I know that Pete and some of the boys will be there to greet me, and we’ll have a grand time. But for now, life goes on, and all we have left are fond memories of Pete. But, therein lies a mystery, one that we can all share. For you see, in those memories, Pete is alive and riding the range with us, and as long as we are alive, then I guess Pete will always be alive as well.
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