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Skillful Cowboy

The Cowboy life is a dreary, dreary life. From dawn till setting sun. The job is never done.
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28/10/2025

Back in the gold rush days, there was a stage run between Deadwood an’ Custer, mean stretch of country. Bandits, bad weather, an’ worse whiskey. The fella drivin’ that route was Silas McCree, tough ol’ cuss, with a mustache so big it needed its own saddle. Man had more grit than a creek bed, but less sense than a mule in a hailstorm.

One stormy night, Silas sets out late, haulin’ a chest of gold, three passengers, and a wagon full o’ bad luck. Thunder was boomin’, lightning dancin’, horses spooked to high heaven. Come mornin’, they found nothin’ but splinters, empty gold box, an’ the wind hummin’ sad tunes down the canyon. Not a body to be found, not man, not beast, not even McCree’s ugly hat.

Now, most folks figured it was robbers. But then, come a week later, a prospector stumbles into camp white as a church candle. Says he seen that same stage rollin’ through the gulch, only it weren’t made of wood no more. Said it glowed, like moonlight on a tombstone. Horses all fire-eyed and floatin’ a foot off the ground. McCree sittin’ up top, reins in hand, lookin’ deader than Sunday supper.

Every so often, someone else’d claim the same thing, that the Ghost Stage comes rumblin’ through the Black Hills when the moon’s thin an’ the wind’s got a mean whistle to it. They say if you listen close, you can hear the creak of the harness, and the jingle o’ the bits… And if you see it, well, you best not wave. McCree don’t take kindly to company.

Some say he’s huntin’ the ones that double crossed him. Others say them Hills just don’t let go o’ folks who died with greed in their hearts.

So, if you ever hear wheels behind you when there ain’t no road, don’t turn around. Just keep ridin’. The dead got their own schedule, an’ they don’t stop for hitchhikers.

27/10/2025

They say Joe Healy rode in from nowhere sometime ‘round the late 1800s, tall fella, wore a duster that looked like it’d seen every kind of storm God ever made. Didn’t talk much, but his horse, a coal-black mustang named Sable, followed him like a shadow with a mind of its own.

Now, Joe wasn’t no outlaw, but he sure wasn’t no saint neither. He worked the trail drives, driftin’ from ranch to ranch, helpin’ brand cattle, mend fences, keep the peace where the sheriff couldn’t. But wherever he went, misfortune followed, droughts, fires, stampedes, and once, a whole crew of drovers vanishin’ into the Platte River fog.

Some said Joe was cursed. Others said he was punished, a man who’d wronged someone mighty powerful, and now wandered the plains payin’ for sins he couldn’t recall.

One cold October night, the story goes, a lightning storm rolled in meaner than a wild bronc. Joe was ridin’ near Broken Bow when a bolt hit a cottonwood right beside him. Folks found his horse the next mornin’, reins still warm, but Joe? Gone without a trace. Only his hat remained, singed ‘round the brim, still smolderin’ from that heavenly fire.

They buried what they could find and said a few words, but that wasn’t the end of Joe Healy. Not by a long shot.

Ever since then, travelers ridin’ through the Sandhills on moonless nights claim they’ve seen him, a lone rider, half-shadow, half-light, movin’ silent as the grave. Sometimes he tips his hat in greetin’, other times he just fades into the mist. And if you’re real unlucky, you might hear his spurs jinglin’ behind you… though there ain’t no footprints left behind.

Some say he’s still searchin’ for redemption. Others reckon he’s guardin’ the plains, keepin’ watch over the souls lost to time.

But one thing’s for certain, if you ever hear a low whistle on a still Nebraska night, and your horse starts to shy for no reason at all… best keep ridin’, friend. ‘Cause you might just be crossin’ paths with Joe Healy. The Haunted Cowboy of Nebraska.

26/10/2025

Harvest time out here ain’t just a season, it’s a heartbeat. It’s the land cashin’ in on all the sweat you’ve been feedin’ it since spring. The air turns sharp, the sun’s still hot on your neck but the wind’s got that whisper of winter comin’. The fields, they shine like old gold coins in the evening light.

It’s long days and short tempers. You start before dawn and don’t hang up your hat ‘til the stars are out and the crickets have taken over the night shift. Meals come out in thermoses and foil, coffee stays hot by sheer stubbornness, and nobody complains much, not seriously, anyway.

But there’s a quiet kind of pride in it. Every load dumped in the bin, every acre finished, it’s a tally mark for all the storms you rode out, all the prayers you muttered when the rain wouldn’t come or came too hard. Harvest ain’t just about grain or cotton or corn, it’s about faith. Faith that the ground still gives, that your hands still know the work, and that next year, you’ll plant again.

As the old hands say: “You don’t count your blessings ‘til they’re sittin’ in the bin, and even then, you thank the Lord for the ones still growin’.”

24/10/2025

Talkin’ about the ways of old hands and the tickin’ hum of the new world.

See, a farmer or a cowboy, he doesn’t think in megabytes or algorithms. He thinks in seasons. He knows the sun’s gonna rise whether the Wi-Fi’s workin’ or not. The soil don’t care if your phone’s got a cracked screen, it only cares if you treat it right, water it well, and let it rest come winter.

There’s a kind of truth out there on the open land that doesn’t change with every software update. It’s in the way a calf learns to stand on shaky legs, or how a wheat field turns gold before harvest. Those things been happenin’ since long before we started countin’ likes and followers.

Now, don’t get me wrong, a man can’t turn his back on progress entirely. A tractor that runs smoother, a satellite that tells you when the rain’s comin’, that’s fine and useful. But the trouble starts when we let the gadgets do our thinkin’ for us. When we forget what real patience feels like, what hard work smells like, or what it means to just sit quiet and listen to the wind crossin’ the pasture.

Out here, the clock still ticks by the sun. You can’t rush a crop, and you sure can’t reboot a bad season. But you can learn, same as our granddaddies did, to take what comes, fix what’s broke, and never stop lookin’ to the horizon.

Maybe that’s the simple wisdom folks forget:
The world keeps changin’, but the good things, honesty, sweat, kindness, and a clear sky at dusk, they don’t need an upgrade.

—Clip from a 1929 interview to an ol’ timer born in 1842.

21/10/2025

Ten seconds in the saddle ain’t much time to most folks, but to a cowboy, that’s a lifetime lived full throttle.

When that chute gate bangs open, and a ton of muscle and fury explodes underneath you, there ain’t no thinkin’, no second guessin’ just pure heart, balance, and the good Lord’s grace keepin’ you upright. Every jolt, every twist, every breath of dirt in your teeth reminds you that you’re alive and earnin’ it.

See, the stands are safe. You don’t get thrown, you don’t bleed, you don’t taste fear or glory. But you also don’t feel the thunder in your bones or hear the crowd fade to nothin’ while the world narrows down to you and that bronc.

So yeah, I’ll take ten seconds in the saddle, bruises, scars, and all, over a lifetime sittin’ still and wonderin’ what if. ‘Cause livin’ ain’t about stayin’ clean. It’s about hangin’ on with all you’ve got, even when the ground’s comin’ fast.

19/10/2025

A cowboy’s life ain’t gilded or easy. It’s early mornings before the sun’s had the courage to rise, and long rides through wind that’ll bite your skin clean off. You work ‘til the stars come out, your back’s sore, your hands are calloused, and supper’s whatever beans survived the day. But in all that grit, there’s something pure, something a lot of folks today don’t even know they’re missing.

A cowboy’s world is simple, not small. You measure wealth by the strength of your word, not the size of your wallet. Out there, a man’s handshake is a contract, and your name carries more weight than gold. You learn to live with the land, not on top of it. You notice how the wind shifts, how the sky warns of weather, how the herd moves when a storm’s coming. You become part of that rhythm, quiet-like.

And maybe that’s what the rest of the world’s misplaced, that quiet knowing. Folks these days run themselves ragged chasing noise and neon, trying to fill a hole that only stillness can patch. A cowboy don’t need much: a good horse, a loyal dog, a stretch of open sky, and a fire crackling at dusk. Freedom, plain and unpolished.

So what does the world miss from the cowboy’s way?
It misses honor without witnesses, freedom without fanfare, and peace without price tags.
The cowboy’s life may be rough, but it’s real. And there ain’t much truer than that.

17/10/2025

Jasbo Fulkerson was born down in Midlothian, Texas, back in 1904, when rodeos were still more dust than dollars. He wasn’t a big man, short legs, built like a fireplug, but he had a heart bigger’n a stock tank and a grin that could sweet-talk a bronc. He tried ridin’ early on, steers and broncs mostly, but somewhere along the trail he realized he got more cheers when he was clownin’ than when he was ridin’.

Now, Jasbo wasn’t just a funny man. He knew bein’ a clown in the arena wasn’t just about laughs, it was about savin’ cowboys’ hides. Bulls were meaner than a nest of hornets and twice as quick, and those poor fellas who got tossed needed someone to draw the bull’s eye long enough to crawl away.

So Jasbo went tinkerin’ and came up with a barrel, lined with old tire casings so it could take a hit without foldin’ up. Folks laughed the first time they saw him dive into it, but when that bull smacked the barrel and Jasbo came rollin’ out alive and grinnin’, they quit laughin’ at him and started laughin’ with him. That barrel saved his hide more than once, and every rodeo clown since owes him a tip of the hat.

He had a sidekick too, a mule named Eko, or Elko dependin’ on who’s tellin’ it. That critter could count, bow, even lie on her back while Jasbo sat cross-legged on her belly like some kinda prairie Buddha. They toured from Texas clear to Madison Square Garden, packin’ crowds with their mix of slapstick and skill. Folks said there was real magic between that man and his mule, the kind you earn with trust and a pocket full of oats.

But the road caught up with him in 1949, when his pickup skidded off near Saginaw. Just like that, Jasbo was gone, the dust settlin’ quiet over one of the best to ever paint his face and step into an arena.

And yet, every time a barrelman ducks behind his drum to draw off a bull, every laugh that echoes while hearts pound for the cowboy in the dirt, that’s Jasbo’s spirit breathin’ on the wind.

16/10/2025

Hoo-wee! Ain’t near enough clearance from that gate. Watch out for the shin!

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