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The Cowboy life is a dreary, dreary life. From dawn till setting sun. The job is never done.
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You can find some fine good brand merchandise at:

https://skillfulcowboyshop.printify.me

See you there, let’s ride!

12/07/2025

A man’s code don’t mean much if he tosses it aside when the odds turn. Catlow may be an outlaw, but he ain’t lawless, he rides by his own rules, and he don’t flinch when they cut both ways.

A nod to Catlow, Louis L’Amour’s smiling renegade, who knew that honor ain’t always found in a badge, sometimes it rides with a man who just won’t lie to himself.

09/07/2025

One of the meanest stretches on the trail west: Ute Pass, down near the mighty shadow of Pike’s Peak, Colorado, back in the year o’ our Lord, 1878.

Ute Pass weren’t no Sunday stroll through bluebonnets. That ol’ trail twisted and clawed its way up the side o’ the Rockies like a rattler in a bad mood. Steep? You bet it was, steeper than a preacher’s sermon on judgment day, with cliffs so sheer a man could hear his echo beg for mercy before it hit bottom.

Back in ’78, this here pass was a right gateway to the San Juan silver fields, and every greenhorn, miner, and fortune hunter was keen to cross it. But the trail was narrow, slick with rock and mud, and wagons’d tip if ya so much as blinked wrong. Horses’d spook, oxen’d stumble, and Lord help ya if snow started fallin’ early, you’d be iced up faster than a bottle o’ rotgut left out overnight.

And it warn’t just nature givin’ ya trouble. This land was Ute territory, and rightly so. They’d been crossin’ that pass for centuries, long ‘fore any white man drew a line on a map. Tensions was runnin’ high after decades of broken promises and greedy land grabs. More’n one wagon train disappeared up that trail, and some say it weren’t wolves that dragged them off.

Travelers had to ride quiet, keep their rifles close, and their eyes peeled. That wind howlin’ through the pines? Mighta been the spirits… or it mighta been watchful eyes on the ridge.

But if ya made it through… well, that was somethin’. Folks say you come out the other side tougher, like the mountain itself had tested ya and let ya pass.

So if you’re sittin’ easy today, thank yer stars you ain’t haulin’ a wagon up Ute Pass in the fall of ’78. ’Cause back then, the West didn’t hand out mercy. You had to earn every mile, with sweat, grit, and a whole lotta luck.

05/07/2025

THE BALLAD OF DAWSON LEGATE
By Red Steagall

Dawson Legate was the kinda cowboy that only comes around once in a blue moon. Born under a prairie sky so wide it’d make a preacher weep, raised on black coffee, cold biscuits, and the dust off a bronc’s back. Folks ‘round the circuit called him “Legate the Lightfoot,” ‘cause that boy could dance on a stirrup while a rank bronc twisted below like a twister through a cotton patch.

He came up rough, no silver spoon, just a silver belt buckle he dreamed of earnin’. Rode his first calf at the county fair when he was knee-high to a grasshopper, and by sixteen he was rakin’ in prize money at local jackpots. Ain’t a soul west of the Mississippi that didn’t know that wild mop of hair and the grin that could charm the hide off a rattler.

They say Dawson’s secret wasn’t just grit, it was heart. He rode for the underdog, handed his winnings to ranch hands who lost their pay in hard times, and always tipped his hat to the stock contractors who threw him their rankest broncs.

His last ride. Oh, folks still talk about it, was at Cheyenne Frontier Days. He drew a bronc named Hell’s Bells, a sunfisher with a mean streak. Dawson spurred that outlaw like he was dancin’ with an old flame, and when the whistle blew, he tipped his hat to the crowd, slid off smooth, and walked into rodeo legend.

02/07/2025

Now lemme tell ya a tale ‘bout a man named Bill “Cody” Smith, one of the true bronc riders under the big rodeo sky. Cody wasn’t born with reins in his hands, but by God, he might as well have been. Grew up punchin’ cattle under the sun, drinkin’ dust, and makin’ broncs dance when most boys were still learnin’ to tie their boots.

But it wasn’t just Cody’s grit that made him a legend.

It was that Ambler Saddle he rode, handmade, rough-cut, and tougher than a two-dollar steak. That saddle wasn’t just leather and riggin’ nah, it was part of the man. Wore it like a second skin. Said it “held the spirit of every ride, every fall, and every eight seconds earned the hard way.”

He’d climb on rank stock, eyes like stormclouds, and when that gate cracked open, hellfire broke loose. Broncs twisted like tornados, but Cody? He moved with ‘em. Like poetry in motion. Like thunder ridin’ thunder.

Folks say Cody once rode a sun-faded outlaw named Hell Biscuit at the Cheyenne Frontier Days, and stuck so clean and straight, they thought he was glued to the hide. Judges stopped watchin’ the clock and started watchin’ him.

Now that Ambler Saddle? It’s worn smooth on the horn and still carries dust from every major rodeo from Fort Worth to Calgary. Ain’t flashy. Ain’t polished. But every scar and scratch on it tells a story, that story.

The story of Bill “Cody” Smith.

Bronc rider. Saddle man. And a cowboy to never back down from a buck.

26/06/2025

Here’s the lowdown ‘bout a horse, not just any ol’ four-legged grass-muncher, but a real piece o’ western film legend. Name was Dear John.

Now Dear John warn’t born in no fancy Hollywood stable. Nope. He came up outta Montana, wild-eyed and blue-roaned, spotted up like a poker deck gone sideways. Feller by the name of Slim Pickens spotted him in a pasture back in ’54. Slim took one look at that rangy Appaloosa and said, “That there’s my horse.” Paid $150, which in cowboy money is damn near a marriage proposal.

And lemme tell ya, that horse could act better’n half the folks in town. Trained by ol’ Glenn Randall same hand who taught Trigger and them other silver screen showboats. Dear John learned to nod, shake his head, buck on cue, and sit like a dog. Ain’t never seen a horse sit down polite unless he was prayin’ for oats.

Slim and that horse? They were tighter than barbed wire on a windy night. Wouldn’t let no greenhorn or actor clown ride Dear John. Not ’cause he was mean, no sir, but ‘cause that horse was a partner, not a prop.

You ever see Santa Fe Passage? Slim and Dear John jump a damn wagon like it’s a rain puddle. Or in The Big Country, when Slim steps in to do a buckin’ scene? Dear John’s the one tossin’ Gregory Peck to the dirt. Didn’t need no stunt double when you had a horse that knew his mark.

That Appaloosa worked TV, rodeos, westerns, heck, probably showed up in your granddad’s dreams if he ever saw a matinee back in the day.

So next time you watch a black-and-white shootout, or hear the wind whistle through a canyon, spare a thought for Dear John, the horse that made cowboys look cooler, stunts look smoother, and the West look just a bit wilder.

He warn’t just a movie horse.
He was a legend with hooves.

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