Jackson Pasture
Back in the 1950’s or so, the Reising-Sterling Ranch rented the Jackson Pasture northwest of Edinburg for grazing our crossbred cattle. The pasture was located about 10 miles north of the Reising-Sterling Ranch and north of the old RR tracks that ran east and west between Faysville and Moore Field. The pasture was not open grassland; it was covered heavily with Mesquite-cactus scrub brush — not the best grazing land but provided excellent habitat for deer and other wildlife.
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Our cattle also became fairly wild during their stay there and it was virtually impossible to round them up with horses in the thick brush. But, there was a corral and a windmill there so my dad would feed the cattle in the corral where they could be trapped when it was time to drive them back to the irrigated pastures of the Reising-Sterling Ranch.
My brother John fondly remembers the cattle drives to and from the Jackson Pasture. The cattle were not inclined to stay on the road but lusted after the unfenced cane, corn and cotton fields along the way. So, it was the job of the Sterling brothers and the ranch cowboys to chase the strays back into the herd and keep them moving. It was like a miniature trail drive to Kansas, but without the chuck wagon. “Great fun,” John said. “We were real cowboys.”
Brother Scott remembers one particular drive when a bull fell into a large cement canal and could not get out. Our dad rode a large, strong, pinto horse. “No problem,” he must have thought, “I’ll rope this bull, tie the lariat around the saddle horn, and help that bull climb out.” All went well for a while as the bull started climbing up the cement embankment until something snapped. The saddle horn broke from the saddle and flew with a zing over the head of the bull. Of course, the bull fell back into the canal. Anyway, the rope was retrieved and the end tied to a Farmall tractor, and the bull was pulled out with no other major complications.
Much of the land north of Monte Christo Road that we drove through had been Mesquite brush back in the 1940’s or so. When it was cleared of that brush and lay bare, northers in the winter would roar across that land, picking up dust as it passed. So, we could sometimes see the northers coming because of the line of brown clouds approaching our home from the northwest. These dust clouds grew larger and larger as they approached. We rushed home to close the windows before the dust arrived. But, dust entered our home anyway through cracks or whatever, but at least not as much as if the windows were left open. The grit entered our eyes, noses, ears, and mouths and we even tasted it for days.
Other than dust, that part of the world also produced some handsome deer. Since we leased the Jackson Pasture, we also had permission to hunt there. So, my brother Bruce and his father-in-law, Amadeo Vela decided we would try our luck. Now the Vela family grew up in the Vela’s Mesquite brush ranch near Red Gate area north of Edinburg, and Amadeo had spent his life hunting deer there on the Vela Ranch. So, he was an expert deer hunter under these conditions. When he gave us advice on hunting techniques, we listened very carefully. I remember his main advice was not to sit in a tree and wait but to hunt on foot. “Move through the brush very, very slowly,” he said. “Take one step, then stop, watch and listen before taking another step. Deer detect movement, so the less you move, the better your chance of seeing deer.”
Anyway, I followed his advice while walking down a sendero. Bruce and Mr. Vela went their separate ways and we were advised not to shoot each other. My Marlin 30-30 was loaded and I was ready when a nice buck stepped out into the sendero maybe 50 yards away. My rifle had open sights and that front dot seemed to cover the entire deer. I fired and the deer jumped from the sendero into the brush. “Probably missed him,” I thought. “But, I’ll go check for blood anyway.” When I arrived at the spot where the deer had been, I looked into the brush where the buck had jumped, and there he was — close-by — staring into my eyes. At that point, I thought the buck might charge and buck fever took charge. I released a couple of shots without aiming and completely missed the buck. But then I realized the buck was not moving and was using only his front legs, so I regained my composure and shot him in the head.
My hunting license had two buck tags, so I decided to try my luck again. This time, I decided to walk out in the brush — but wondering if the sound of my shots might have scared other deer away from the area. Anyway, maybe another 50 yards from my first kill, I walked up on a second buck maybe 50 feet away. It was looking away from me and never saw me. A single shot brought him down.
Now, I was faced with a dilemma. I had killed two nice 8-point deer but it was only maybe 9 AM, so what was I going to do while Bruce and Mr. Vela continued hunting? Anyway, I found Bruce, proudly showed him my deer and convinced him to put one of his deer tags on one of my bucks so that I could keep hunting legally. We hung the bucks, bled them, gutted them and resumed hunting. Mr. Vela's advice had paid off but he and Bruce were skunked that day.
About noon, and hungry, we built a fire and placed the fresh deer livers on the coals. Although I was normally not very fond of liver, that liver tasted as good as any meat I had eaten in a while. Now it was time to go home with our trophies.
We tossed the two bucks into the bed of our pickup and drove to the exit gate south of the pasture. There, beside the old railroad tracks sat my “old friend” the game warden. “No problem,” I thought, “we had our hunting licenses and everything was in order. Right?”
“Nice bucks,” he said as he checked the tags that were attached to the antlers. “May I see your licenses?”
When Bruce showed him his license, the warden asked what had happened to one of his tags. “It’s on my brother’s deer,” Bruce said.
When Bruce showed him his license, the warden asked what had happened to one of his tags. “It’s on my brother’s deer,” Bruce said.
“Oh no, Bruce! You were supposed to fabricate an answer that you killed the deer.” I thought. “But maybe this warden won’t be such a stickler for details, give us a warning, and let us go.”
No way! “It is against the law to place a second person’s tag on a deer you killed,” he said. He wrote out a ticket, handed it to me and — with a wry smile — said, “Good to see you again, Mr. Sterling.” Then he left to find other criminals who had the audacity to shoot the “king’s animals.”
When we returned home, we told the story to our dad and Mr. Reising. “We should fight this in court,” Mr. Reising said. But we did not fight it in court. I paid the fine, had the head of the largest deer mounted and hung it over the fireplace in our home — where it remained for many years until the skin beetles finally destroyed it.
As I was telling this story a few days ago, brother Scott interjected that he thought maybe I had found two bucks with locked antlers and that I shot them both and pretended that to be a good hunter. Well, this is my version and I’m sticking with it.
But, game wardens or not, we really enjoyed visiting Jackson Pasture. The odds of finding a rattlesnake there was very good. We found and killed several of them. However, one evening after dark I was walking through the brush, when I heard a rattlesnake rattle sound someplace very, very close — but I could not see it. So, I didn’t know which direction I could step to avoid snakebite. I stood in place for several minutes without moving. Finally, the snake stopped rattling. Well, I could not stand there all night and wait till morning light to find the snake, so I ran quickly forward, got lucky and did not step on any snakes.
Ultimately, the Jackson Pasture was cleared and turned into cropland. It would be interesting to know how it got its name and the pre-1950s history.
