Wagenshein's Bull
April 22, 2016
It was an exciting day and we were to experience some unexpected adventure. Sister Peggy and I had been invited by my Dad to help him haul a bull from the Waggenshein Ranch near Encino, TX back home to our Reising-Sterling Ranch. Dad needed a Brahma bull to cross-breed a bunch of mostly Herford cows that he and Mr. Reising had purchased. They were striving for the hybrid vigor that would result from crossing these two breeds.
I was maybe 13 years old or so and Peggy was 3 years older. Our old flatbed, military truck was a rough-riding machine that bounced over the potholes in the caliche-paved, Monte Christo road and we kicked up a long cloud of white caliche dust behind us as we headed to the 281 Highway. Then, we proceeded north passed Redgate, the Moore Field adjunct training Airbase at Linn, San Manuel and continued north through the hot, ranch lands of the King Ranch. Highway 281 was a narrow, two-lane, roadway that led us to our turnoff into the Wagenshein Ranch between Encino and Falfurrias. The name Falfurrias is thought to be the Spanish name for a native desert flower known as the heart’s delight — but I digress.
It was not difficult to recognize the approach into Encino because this is where the scrub oak, sandy lands began. I marveled at the change of scenery from the Mesquite-dominated scrub-brush to those beautiful oaks. OK, they were not large oaks but they presented a clear ecosystem difference from the Mesquite-Huisache-Cactus-Catclaw-Wild Olive parts of this Wild Horse Prairie brushland — as it was called back when. We turned into the gate of Wagenshein Ranch, and the countryside was dotted with mots of oak, growing on undulating low sand dunes and we observed Wild Turkeys, White-tailed deer, and cattle. We ground our way through the deep sand on this unpaved ranch road that led us to a corral — where Mr. Wagenshein was waiting for us. He seemed like a very nice man but not overly talkative. His Corral held this huge, wild-eyed Brahma bull that we were supposed to load in what now seemed a too small and almost fragile, modified WWII military, cattle truck. Of course, the size of this bull has likely grown somewhat in my memory — much like the size of that big bass that got away in many fish stories. But, he was big!
Somehow, we managed to force him to climb the loading ramp into the truck and we closed the sideboard gate behind him. But, he was not very happy about the process. Dad paid Mr. Wagenshein for the bull, we said our goodbyes and drove back out that soft sand road. With this new weight of the bull, the truck sunk a little deeper into the sand, but Dad expertly managed to keep us from sticking. He kept the truck in the highest gear possible without the strain killing the engine. The goal was to keep the tires from spinning in the soft sand because spinning would cause the tires to sink and we could be stuck. So, we chugged, bounced and slowly made our way.
Maybe about halfway back to highway 281, we heard some loud banging and so we looked back through the rear window. Our bull had hooked his right horn into the sideboards and had lifted them out of the brackets that usually hold them secure to the truck bed. Apparently, our bull had some idea of escaping his hot, bouncing prison to find some shade, sweet grass, and some attractive cows. But, he was “on the horns of a dilemma” so to speak. Although he had successfully lifted the sideboards on the right side, he could not jump off the truck because the sideboard posts were still firmly in place on the other side of the truck, all sideboards were linked together and his horns were entangled in the sideboards. Dad stopped the truck and began to assess the situation. The poor bull stood in the bed of the truck with this sideboard dangling from its right horn and looking both mad and bewildered. I think that Dad likely felt about the same way, but Peggy and I were mostly just worried. Dad, ultimately gave us our marching orders: “When I yell, I want you two to crawl out the front window of the truck and slide over the hood onto the ground. Then crawl under the truck — out of reach of the bull —and pull the ropes I hand you under the truck so I can tie them on the other side.” Now, remember, this was a used, WWII Army truck so the front window folded out, which allowed Peggy and I to escape that way. Somehow, with a little coaching from Dad, the bull decided to change tactics — so it lowered its head, untangled its horn from the sideboard slats and the sideboard posts fell back into their metal brackets. The prison break was thwarted. But, to prevent it from lifting the sideboards again, Dad tied down one side with the rope then handed it to us under the truck so we could carry the loose end to the other side so he could tie it down too. Unfortunately, the ground under the truck was covered with goathead type sandburs — which were very unkind to our knees and hands as we crawled about. But, the threat of that big bull was so scary that a little blood and injury from those nasty goatheads seemed relatively trivial. After the sideboards were secure, we climbed back in the truck seat and resumed our journey. Yes, the bull thrashed around some more as we continued our drive, but — to our relief — he didn’t succeed in lifting the side-boards again.
The trip back home was then relatively uneventful. We unloaded our mad bull with little problem and he started checking out the cows.
But that is not the end of this story about this bull. Several years later, Dad decided to replace Wagenshein’s bull with a newer one. So we were going to load him on a truck and transport it to butcher shop out on highway 107 west of Edinburg. Knowing that this bull was fairly hard-headed, ill-tempered and that he had grown even larger, we prepared to herd him into the corral where we could force him up the loading ramp into the truck. Several of our Mexican cowboys on horses herded the bull toward the gate to the corral. But, when they approached the gate, the bull must have realized what was happening and would have none of it. He simply broke past the horses and headed back to the pasture. Over and over the process was repeated, until finally, our talented cowboys succeeded in closing the corral gate behind him. But, our bull — in a spite of defiance — ran across the corral and hit the gate on the other side, smashing it to smithereens. This was no trivial gate. The entire corral was built of 2 X 12” planks, covered with a tar-like material that had been taken from a large, wooden barge that had once plied the intercostal canal of Texas. The gate that our bull smashed with such grace, was built out of similar material. But, again our talented cowboys managed to herd him back into an undamaged section of the corral where the bull settled down and stood in silent resignation — glaring at all the human participants in this drama as if daring them to challenge him on foot.
Our cowboys had tried to force him up the chute onto the ramp and into a truck, but the bull resisted. No matter how hard we all tried, we could not make that bull enter the truck. So, Dad finally gave up and called the butcher to come out with his rifle to shoot the bull and carve him into small enough pieces so they could haul him to the butcher shop.
For these kinds of operations, girls were not allowed — so neither Peggy or any of my other sisters were involved. I found it a very difficult operation to watch, but I did. When I watched the first bullet of the 30-30 caliber rifle hit the bull in the forehead, all I could see was a small puff of dust where the bullet hit. The bull just stood there and watched with no apparent harmful effect. But, I decided I could not watch any more shots, so I went to another part of the corral to escape the coming carnage. Several more shots rang out and the bull finally died.
I had to admit an admiration for Wagenshein’s bull. He was one tough SOB and I was sorry to see him shot — but I understood Dad’s decisions. Maybe that bull also convinced Dad not to use semi-wild, big, mean Brahma bulls to sire his herds. So, he switched to tamer, poll Santa Gertrudis Bulls that he could lead around with a feed bucket. But, even one of these docile bulls almost killed me. Dad and I were herding this one bull and Dad yelled: “head him off”. So I stood my ground in front of that big, good-natured, bull while waving my arms and shouting. That bull calmly pushed me to the ground with his nose and walked right over me. Dad thought that that 2000 pound bull had stepped on me and likely squashed my skinny body. He picked me up out of the dust and ran toward the house where our pickup stood, so he could rush me to the hospital. Well, the bull had somehow not stepped on me and I was unharmed, but it took a while to convince Dad that I was OK.
So, here I am now — almost 80 years old and having survived those two bulls — enjoy looking back on those boyhood experiences that didn’t kill me or sister Peggy and maybe toughened me up for the wild ride I’ve had through life. It’s been a great ride!
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