Cowboy Art Black died recently. You probably don’t know him and he certainly wasn’t famous but he was a one of a kind person. Think crusty cowboy. (that’s him in the picture in the silverbelly colored hat and yellow scarf)
My friend Megan Hunewill wrote: “Art Neil Black was born in Three Forks, near Bozeman, Montana, on Friday, December 13, 1935. His twin did not survive that cold Montana winter. Art was kept warm in a shoebox behind the woodstove. Not long after he was born he contracted polio and his legs were twisted. From the time he was a small boy his damaged legs were replaced by the four legs of a horse. He rode a horse to school and he never let his disability slow him down. Art became a cowboy and spent the rest of his life horseback. He worked on the Hunewill Ranch for forty-eight years, both in Bridgeport, California and in Smith Valley, Nevada.”
The first time I met Art I thought “now here’s a real cowboy”. He was old and tan and had a wrinkled face. He was incredibly strong. Art could barely get on a horse due to his legs but knew everything there was to know about tack and cows and how to make cowboy coffee. He thought he was a good horse trainer. Art was a natural rider and knew a huge amount about the countryside. He did things easily and never complained about his personal situation. And could ride all day. But boy he could say harsh and hurtful things to you although he didn’t mean them to be hard. It was just his way.
“He should have been born a 100 years earlier and lived his life unencumbered by the burdens of our century” one acquaintance said.
One day he put his horse into a dip to make it easier for him to mount and started to get on. His horse spooked, threw him off and then fell on him. I jumped off my horse thinking the worse and tried to get Art to lie still for a minute but of course he pushed me away and got up obviously bruised. He got on the horse again and then proceeded to work it hard for half an hour cursing and spurring the horse the whole time. I learned some new words. He was tough.
The first 20 times I rode with Art he ignored me. And everyone else. If you were near him he spent the time talking about western history or criticizing what others on the ride were doing.
But my first impressions were wrong and the more time I spent with him I realized he had an incredibly soft side. I shared his interest in history and always brought him a book to read. After a few times he actually recognized me and learned my name.
If he saw a cowboy struggling with a problem he’d quietly ride up and offer a suggestion. He was especially encouraging to children (as long as they were behaving) and would go out of his way to help them as long as he thought no one was watching.
He had a habit of being the first back at the ranch and he’d sit on his horse and watch everyone else come in. For each woman or child he’d make some compliment as they’d go by. “nice shirt”, “nice boots”, “you looked good today”, “that scarf is great”.
In the early Spring one year I went with him and half a dozen other cowboys to round up 60 steers and bring them to a pasture close to the barn so they could be transported. The entire ride out he kept saying how careful we needed to be because steers will easily stampede. And then of course he had stories about stampede disasters.
We got them bunched and started to move the herd towards the destination when we came across a pretty deep creek. The herd halted and refused to cross. Everyone stopped and looked at Art for directions. He just kept quiet and didn’t move. I knew that putting too much pressure on them would be a disaster but we had to keep going. After 10 minutes waiting I picked out the herd leader and with my horse started to calmly push him into the creek. He resisted but I finally got him across. I expected the other cows to follow but of course no one did. I looked at Art. He looked at me. I took another across and spent the next hour moving each steer across by myself. I was proud of what I’d done and was waiting for some praise but none came. No big deal, I knew I’d solved a problem without any help so felt good. When we got back to the barn he rode up next to me and said in a loud voice not aimed at me. “We did good today, we did really good today”. That was enough for me.
One day late in his life he came out to the barn in a golf cart that the ranch owners had provided for him because he could no longer mount a horse. He was just watching the cowboys get ready to head out. I started talking with him and he looked at my horse (summer soda). “That’s a really good looking horse”. Thanks Art. “That’s a really good McCall saddle isn’t it?” Yes Art. “I love your romel reins”. Yes, Garcia made those for me. “And your chaps, those the kind I like as well”. Thanks Art. “I heard from Jeff that you did a good job cutting out pairs this week”. Thanks Art. I was astounded. He’d never praised anything I did. And it made me a little sad. I knew he was making a special effort to be nice and it made me realize how close he was to the end of his life.
But he surprised everyone and lasted another 2 years despite multiple brushes with death. My friends Fred and Kay Shean saw him just before he died and wrote: “Last memorable words two weeks before he died: “I’m as mean as ever, but my body’s just quitting on me.”
Art passed away this past June and left many friends and his lovely daughter Terry. He also left a brother Ron and apparently a son Kermit that I know nothing about. I miss him and think of him often.