When I was just a teenage boy, I’d say about sixteen, we rode into the Yellowstone, Old Faithful’s what I mean.
We must have been at least a dozen cowboys, maybe more. We were looking for some fun and didn’t know what lay in store.
We found a hitching post and tied the horses for the day. But my cousin saw some elk and said, “Let’s go chase those elk away!”
Now being sixteen years and never thinking consequence, we hopped back on our horses. Didn’t have a lick of sense.
That day I’d chosen Stretch to ride—he wasn’t known for speed. He’d seen his share of trail rides, just a tired and worn-out steed.
So, the elk took off a’running. Stretch was kicking up his heels. The wind was blowing in my face. The thrill how one boy feels!
But then I heard a whistle blow, felt sickly to my gut. ‘Twas a Ranger on his motorcycle, right on Stretch’s butt.
The horses took off to the trees—we’d pushed our luck of fun—we had to make it back to camp, twelve outlaws on the run.
Well, back at camp each cowboy’s tale was taller than the sky. But I’m the only one who’d looked the Ranger in the eye.
The Ranger got a look at me. I’m sure he knew my dad. I wondered just how long it’d be before I’d soon be had.
That day was fifty years ago, and talk about tight-lipped. Not one cowboy had flapped his jaws; afraid of being whipped.
Did the Ranger ever tell my folks? I’ll prob’ly never know. But if they’d ever asked me, well, I guess I’d tell ‘em so.
When thinking of Old Faithful and twelve cowboys on the run, forgive me ‘cuz I must admit, I’ve never had more fun!
— Bryce Angell
