Goat Herding in Otero County

by Clif McDonald

Sam Gilliland knocked on our door just at daylight.  My brothers and I had been waiting in euphoric anticipation for this moment for several days.  I was twelve years old and didn't know Sam, but I had seen him roping at rodeos.  He was six-foot plus, red-headed, strong, and tall and straight in the saddle.

One reason the Gillilands were heroes to me and my brothers was the gun battle at Wildy Well.  Sam's brother, Jim Gilliland and Oliver Lee had been attacked by Pat Garrett and his posse while they were asleep.  We believed the sheriff had taken an unfair advantage.  Of course this happened before we were born, but we had heard the story, and our loyalties lay with Gilliland and Lee, who fought back and defeated Garrett and his posse, killing one of Pat's men.

Dad had told us a few days before that Sam was coming to possibly buy a herd of goats from us.  Not only were we happy about meeting Sam, but we were also hoping to get some money from the sale of the goats to buy some new school clothes.

There was a fire in the kitchen stove and the coffee pot was percolating.  Dad got up, opened the door and said, "Come on in, Sam."  Sam said, "I brought my wife." and Dad said, "Bring her in.  Breakfast is about ready."  They came in, introductions were made all around, and everyone sat down at the big kitchen table, waiting for Mother to finish cooking breakfast.  Sam and his wife had been married just over two weeks - and she was a beautiful lady!

Soon, breakfast was over and we went out to the corral.  Sam walked around through the herd, looking the goats over.  He would occasionally catch one and check its teeth for age.  Dad wanted two dollars per head and Sam wanted them for a dollar seventy-five.  Finally, Sam said, "We are going to have to drive them cross country on foot 'cause so much of this country is fenced up now."

We knew what he meant.  the goats could go through fences but saddle horses could not.  Sam took off his hat, scratched his head and said, "Tell you what I'll do.  I'll give you two dollars a head for all the goats we get to my ranch.  If we lose any of them along the way, I can't pay you for them."  Dad said, "Fair enough.  I'll send this boy here with you.  He's a good herder; he'll get 'em all there.  His name is Clif."  I was elated to be the one chosen out of eight boys!

We filled our canteens, got our slickers and a pocket full of jerky and headed out to Sam's ranch which was south of Carrizozo.  Sam's wife met us in the truck with food and bedrolls where we made camp that night.  Next morning we had finished breakfast when it started coming daylight.  Sam and me and his dog had all become good friends by then.  His dog was a well trained, good herder.  When we got the herd strung out and grazing, we would sit down to rest and drink out of our canteens.  Then Sam would pour some water in his hat and hold it for his dog to drink out of.

We left Tulie Creek the next morning, headed north through the saddle just west of Cat Mountain.  We were to meet Sam's wife that night in Coyote Canyon near the Indian reservation.  About noon it started raining and we put on our slickers.  It was almost dark when we reached our next campsite.  We found a good tank of water but the corral had deteriorated to the point that it wouldn't hold our goats, so we had to take turns watching them so they wouldn't run off and get lost.

Sam's wife didn't show up with our food and bedrolls so we figured the  roads had been washed out because a lot of the road was in the arroyo bed.  You don't know how hungry a twelve-year-old boy can get.  I had run out of jerky about noon the day before.  Sam asked me if I thought I could eat some goat meat if we butchered one, and I said, "If we could find some dry wood to cook it with, I can."
About that time the moon started coming up and got very bright.  Sam said, "You know with this cool night air and moonlight, we can maybe see good enough to move this herd.  We sure could make lots of miles before it get hot tomorrow and it's only about twenty-five miles to Three Rivers.  We can get something to eat there."  So we moved them out.  We could see well enough on the ridges, but when we had to cross a canyon, some of the goats would stop under the trees and I couldn't see them.  So, I would take the dog and bark them out in the open.  This worked well, but I also woke several rattle snakes which was kinda scary in the dark; and, I was afraid maybe I wasn't getting all the goats out of the brush.

Next morning when it came good daylight, I looked over the herd but I couldn't tell if I had lost any goats.  We were on the lower slopes of Sierra Blanca Mountain.  Looking to the west across the Tularosa Basin, we could not see Three Rivers, a ranch house, nor any sign of life.  We were so hungry and tired, and the goats were so tired that they couldn't make much mileage.  I suggested we rest, but Sam said, "If we stop, we're going to stiffen up and it will be worse. Besides, our canteens are dry."

About that time we spotted a windmill and we could see the blades turning in the morning sun.  We figured there might be a ranch house there, too, and we could get food and water.  However, it appeared to be several miles away.  This kind of gave us a second wind, and Sam asked, "Can you make it, Kid?"  I said sure!  If these goats don't sull on us, and, if it don't get too hot, we can be there in about four or five hours."
About an hour later I could see a long dust plume going north down in the basin beyond the windmill and we knew it was a car on Highway 54 between Tularosa and Three Rivers; Highway 54 was not paved then.  Soon after that, we saw a train.  This gave me assurance we could eventually come back into civilization.  I had never been in this part of the country, but I knew there were people and food down there somewhere.

As the day got hotter, the herd got tireder and slower; I didn't have any trouble with any of them trying to break out of the herd.  I was so tired, I couldn't have done anything about it.  Sam and I were both punching up the drags this time.  After an hour of silence, Sam finally said, "The windmill is just over this next mountain.  Can you make it, Kid?"  I said, "Sure I can!"  But in my own mind, I was not at all sure I could climb that next mountain.  When we did finally make it to the top there was good news - there was a big trough of water, but no ranch house.  When we got to the water, the goats were climbing on top of each other trying to get a drink and we joined in the competition.

As soon as all the goats got water, they bedded down to rest.  It was about three in the afternoon, and I tried to figure out how many meals I had missed in a row, but the days and nights ran together.  I lay down in the shade of a mesquite bush and I immediately went to sleep.  I sprang to my feet an hour later, aware of my responsibility to keep the herd together, but they were all still bedded down.  Sam said, "They ain't going nowhere."  We had become good friends by then, and I felt proud to be pardnering with a man like Sam.

Sam said, "Well, we got several options.  We can cook a goat and spend the night here, or one of us can walk on into Three Rivers and bring food back, or we can just wait awhile.  My wife may find us before long if she ain't stuck somewhere.  What do you think we should do?"  My hunger was overcome by the joy that Sam was including me in the decision making.  I felt like I had gained his confidence.

We didn't have to make the decision because we heard a truck engine coming up the arroyo bed.  He cupped his hands behind his ears intently for a moment and said, "Yeah, that's my truck."  We were waving our hats as Sam's wife came up over the rise.  She pulled up and said, "The roads were washed out yesterday.  I been lookin' for you all day."  After we had eaten everything on the truck, Sam said, "Let's spend the night here.  Let's get the herd up and graze 'em awhile, so they won't be restless tonight."

The next night we spent near Three Rivers.  We herded the goats back into a box arroyo and I unrolled my bed in the mouth of the divide so I would wake up if they started to leave.  Sure enough, I woke with them walking out over me.  I looked to the east and it was beginning to be light, so I knew I could have enough light to gather them in about thirty minutes.  The following night we bedded them down in a big, dry dirt tank and took turns watching.  We could skylight them as they went over the tank dump.  The next evening we reached our destination at Sam's ranch, which was south of Carrizozo, right next to the lava flow.  I sure slept good knowing the goats were all corralled.

When we counted them out in the morning, and we had only lost five head, I was very relieved because I knew it could have been much worse.  After the count, Sam said, "Would you do me a big favor?"  I said, "Sure, anything!"  And he said, "I've got to go to Roswell and hire another herder to help this one I've got.  I'd like you to help my herder till I get back and I'll get you home in a couple of weeks before school starts."   So I said, "OK. I'll write and tell my folks if you'll mail the letter tomorrow in Carrizozo."  (There were no phones or electricity in the ranch country at that time).  So I wrote:
              Dear Mom and Dad,
              We finished the drive.  Be home in two weeks.  I'm working for Sam awhile.  We
              only lost five head.
              Clif

I got a whole new experience herding on the lava rocks.  There was lots of good brush for browsing.  But again, we couldn't ride horseback because it was too rocky.  So when I finally got home, I had completely worn out my shoes.
Sam came back and brought me a new pocket knife for a present.  It was a Barlow with good metal, the first expensive knife I had ever owned.

When we got home and Sam paid my dad for the goats, he shook my hand and said, "Enjoyed working with you, Kid, and I'll see you again."  He still called me Kid when I was fifty years old.  He would come to my barber shop and say, "Hi, Kid, how about let's cook a goat?"  Sam is long since gone, but I think about him often and I miss him.  I'm eighty-five years old now, and I'll probably be seeing him again before too long.  He will probably ride over from the side of the arena and say, "Hi, Kid, how about let's cook a goat."