Faraway Horses by Buck Brannaman, William Reynolds

fact, my old horse trailer featured a variety of spreading rust motifs by way of decoration. But I had some damn good rope tricks.
    There were five or six thousand people in the audience. I did my best stuff, and it brought the house down. I got a standing ovation.
    Since I hadn’t been sure whether Hunnicut would take me on for the rest of the season, I had left some of my stuff back in Montana. A friend named Bob Donaldson had asked me to give him a ride to Douglas, Wyoming, on my way back to pick up my things. Bob, who was working the high school rodeo finals there, offered to introduce me to the producer of that event. He said, “I think he’d really like to talk to you. He’s heard that your rope tricks are really good, and he really wants to give you a job. He could be a great connection for you.” I knew who the man was but I didn’t say a word.
    When we got to Douglas early the next morning, this big-time producer was sitting around and drinking coffee with abunch of his cronies. Bob introduced me to him, but the rodeo producer didn’t recognize me. Of course he didn’t; he had been too full of himself that afternoon in Denver.
    He said, “Well, I’m so-and-so, and I’ve got a lot of big shows, some of the biggest rodeos in the business, and I heard you’re really a hell of a performer. I’d like to give you some work, son.”
    I replied, “Well, sir, I know you don’t remember me, but I certainly remember you. And it’s not that I don’t need the work, because I do. But working for you and going to those big rodeos wouldn’t mean near as much to me as telling you to kiss my ass. You still don’t remember me, and it doesn’t matter. But because of what you did to me at one of the lowest points of my life, I’ll never forget you. It’s people like you who are going to make me successful one day.”
    Thanks to Roy Hunnicutt, I had plenty of success with my rope tricks, if you want to call it that. I was good at them, but it was kind of a dead-end deal. I was lucky to make $200 a performance, and by the time I’d paid my expenses, I was making less money than cowboying for $450 a month. Besides, I had a lot better time on the ranch than I did on the rodeo circuit—the loneliness of being on the road got to me, too, so after a few years, I went home to the ranch.
    However, I’ve never forgotten the impression that “big-time” rodeo producer made on me. He wouldn’t give me his time because he didn’t figure I could do anything for him. He didn’t respect me as a person. That was a good lesson I’ve never forgotten.
    Always up for a good cause, Buck does the Texas Skip at a benefit for the Sheridan Inn in Sheridan, Wyoming.
    Now that I’ve reached the point where I have a certain amount of influence, I try real hard to take time out for people who may expect not to be noticed. If somebody writes me a letter or comes up and talks to me, I appreciate the courage the effort may have taken, and I try to give them my time. I try to learn their names.
    It hasn’t been that long since I was in their position.

4
Learning to Listen
    B Y THE EARLY 1980 S I had spent a lot of time with a lot of great horsemen. I was learning how little I knew about horses and how much more I needed to learn. I’d ride horses all day and then consider the day’s work while trying to sleep. I was constantly confounded, but eventually solutions would present themselves.
    When I moved to Gallatin Gateway, Montana, I didn’t have any customers, but I had a horse or two of my own. I rented an indoor arena up Gallatin Canyon, at the Spanish Creek Ranch, and then took an apartment in the old Gallatin Gateway Inn.
    The inn, which has since been renovated, is a beautiful turn-of-the-century hotel now, but in those days it was pretty run-down. The owner had been trying to remodel the place, and like a lot of owners before him, he had run out of money. Of the two apartments next to the downstairsbar, I took the one with the