RIDIN' FOR THE BRAND



We could see him on the ridge north of camp just sitting on his horse silhouetted against the evening
sky.  He appeared to be watching the camp.  Who is he?  What did he want?  Was he good or bad?  Was
it trouble in the making or someone to fill our need for much needed help?
We had started the drive southwest of Victoria with a thousand head or more of wild Texas cows and
headed them up and started for Wichita, Kansas.  Somewhere east of Abilene a stampede took Shorty.  
Slim’s horse stepped in a gopher hole.  The horse broke his leg and we had to shoot him.  Shorty broke
his shoulder and he’s now riding with the chuck.  We were all working hard to keep the cows bunched but
it was a bit more than we could handle and we could sure use the help.  This stranger up on the ridge
made us nervous.  What was he up to?
“He’s coming in,” Red shouted.  Sure ‘nuf he was off the ridge ridin’ straight for camp.  He sit his horse
straight as a board and rode straight for the cook’s fire. ridin’ at a slow trot.  Hap, the Trail Boss, walked
toward him to find out what he wanted.  We all stood when we noticed the strap was off Hap’s Colt and
his left hand was hanging loose by his side.  He was ready so we did likewise.  We thought we were
ready for whatever this stranger was bringing into our camp.  We didn’t know just how wrong we were.
“Howdy,” Hap called out as he walked toward the stranger.  He was careful to keep the horse’s neck
between himself and the stranger’s right hand.  Hap had noticed the Colt on the stranger’s right hip.  
“Can’t be too careful,” the stranger said as he smiled and extended his right hand to Hap. “Wanted to
make sure you weren’t renegades before I came ridin’ in.”   “My name is Parson Will and if’n you’re
headed for Wichita I’d like to ride along with you.  It’s kind’ a spooky ridin’ alone in this country.  I don’t
mind carrying my part if you can tolerate the company.”  “Parson?  You a preachin’ man?” Hap asked.  
“Yes sir,” the stranger answered.  “I’m headed for Wichita to start a church there.”  Hap kicked at the
ground and laughed.  “I didn’t think Wichita was church country,” he said.  “Oh, God’s been there a long
time now,” the Parson answered.  “Well step down and have some joe,” Hap said as he turned and
walked back toward the fire.  We all looked at each other and shrugged and shook our heads.  Just what
we needed; a preacher.  We need a cowhand bad and a preacher comes riddin’ into camp.
That was two months ago and that Parson showed himself to be as good a hand as we had seen.  He
could ride with the best of our bunch, out shoot most of us, and was right friendly.  Kinda a loner though.  
Each time he stepped down for chuck, he’d get his plate and cup and sit off by himself.  We noticed he
would place his makin on the ground where he sit and bow his head for a spell.  Appeared to be talking to
himself.  “He’s pray’in,” Shorty said.  We didn’t know what to do.  Made us a little nervous.  Some of the
men snickered, some laughed, while some just shook their heads and went on with their eat’n.  
We were about to have the Nations behind us when we were hit by a band of Kiowa.  It was a short fight,
we lost about a hundred head and Slick took an arrow in the chest.  He died two days later.  The Parson
held up his end in all the ruckus and we had noticed that during the two days that Slick was on his back,
that Parson was by his side tendin’ him and prayin’ over him.  We found that strange since Slick rode the
Parson hard whenever he had the chance.  
The day Slick died, Parson stood up, looked up at the sky and said, “Well Lord, He’s your’s now.”  He
walked over to his roll and took out a black coat.  He put on his coat, picked up his Bible and a shovel.  
Just outside of camp he started digging.  Hap was the first to join him.  He walked up to the Parson and
without saying a word took the shovel out of his hand.  “You stand over there,” Hap said.  “You’ve done
your part, now it’s my time.”  Hap stated digging.  One by one the hands walked over and took their time at
the shovel.  When the diggin’ was done, they wrapped Slick in a piece of canvas and lowered him into the
grave.
We didn’t know exactly what to do, so we all looked at the Parson.  He took his hat off and started praying.  
We did likewise.  Before we realized it, that Parson had made a church out of that place.  He talked about
Slick and how he had changed from being a human man out on a limb to standing before his Maker.  He
talked about how each one of us would answer for our doing and how God was willing to forgive us if we
would just let Him.  He told us about Jesus and about faith and about believing in Him.  Then he told us
that when we believed in Jesus as God’s Son that God would forgive us of all our doin’n.  I accepted
Jesus as my Savior that day keeling in the dirt beside Slick’s grave.
It was about ten years later when I stepped off a train in Wichita.  “I wonder if that preaching man is still
here?” I thought.  “Is there a church in this town?” I asked the conductor.  “Sure is, a good one.” He said
as he pointed up the street.  Out on the edge of town was a small church.  As I walked up I could the
preacher man on his knees digging in the flower bed.  “You still on your knees digging?” I asked.  He
smiled broadly as he recognized me and we shook hands.  “I have to ask you about that day when Slick
died from that Kiowa arrow.”  I said.  We sit over a cup of joe and he started talking.  
“My job was to be ready when God gave me the chance,” he said.  He went on to describe how he
believed during that time on the trail that it was for him to live his faith and that when God’s spirit moved it
was for him to be ready to do whatever God gave him opportunity to do.  He explained the Good Book told
him to be ready and to be sensitive to the Spirit’s moving. (2 Timothy 4:2)  He explained he couldn’t
change Slick any more than he could change any one of us.  Changing the heart is God’s job.  It was his
job not to let Slick hurt him but to love Slick in spite of himself.  God took Slick, and made us ready that day
by making us willing to listen to the preacher man.
As I stepped aboard the train to leave I looked up.  “Thank you, God.” I whispered.  “Thank you for the
cowboy you sent to our camp that day on the panhandle plain.”  The whistle signaled it was time to go.


© Carl H. Lenz, 2007
The Cowboy