THE PASSING OF THREE HORSEMEN

In 1909 Ira Carey concluded that he and wife, Bessie, should have a ranch of their own, and he managed to scrape together a year of his hired man's wages, $500, to purchase one. With that half-section and a cabin as home base, he continued to work for others and used that income to purchase cattle and begin building a herd. Further, he added to his property through claims under the Desert Land Act, an 1877 law that allowed people to irrigate and claim arid, public land. He even bought the place where his wife had been raised.

Mrs. Carey brought into the world six children, beginning with Irene, then Del, Helen, Betty, Peggy, and Randy. In the painting Randy looks to be designing a wild west show or a circus act with his popular horse, Popeye, but his life was not to unfold in those directions, but we wish we could have balanced half so well when we tried last autumn to learn paddle-boarding.

Ira was a member of the Range Riders, which organization held an annual parade, and, whereas he was invited to participate, he thought his horses were too old and not fine enough. One year a friend lent him a horse, and he was eager for the parade, but many a sad tale begins with a borrowed horse, and none is sadder than this.

His mount had no experience of curbs, became entangled with one, and threw Ira to the pavement with a fatal head injury. Without regaining consciousness, he died several days later in the hospital.

Following the tragedy, Bessie moved into town, so that her daughters would be within a mile of school and then re-married a Seattle man and moved Randy there.

Del, the elder son, remained on the Foster Creek ranch to operate it and ultimately bought it. The painting shows him at branding work when he was about forty-five. This was a true horseman and roper, a man whose reflex was to jump on his horse, not a motor vehicle, to draw a stuck vehicle from the mud. He was an honored assistant at local brandings, for he placed the calf's care foremost. With seven children, life for him and his wife, Bernice, was not always easy, but, like a true cowboy, he tried to enjoy God's gifts to him. Popeye became Del's children's favorite and was kept for all to ride. At local dances he played banjo, fiddle, and mandolin and loved to read about the lives of other cowboys.

Nine or ten years ago, cancer claimed Del, and when his widow saw the painting at a Miles City show, she commented quietly that he was portrayed too skinny, but the fact was simply that with the years he had added weight. Today, their daughter and her husband work the original ranch.

That youngest horseman, Randy, developed a successful business in landscaping. His wife, Ginger, also of Miles City, and he made annual visits back to the family until he passed away three years ago.

The story of the Careys concludes, but the non-artist of this partnership sees more deeply into the painting of Del and wishes to relate his impressions.

It must seem odd, if not impossible, that a person growing up with the likes of Johnny Mack Brown, Lash La Rue, Buster Crabbe, and the Durango Kid as his icons of cowboys has admiration for this painting. In the way of film stereotypes, this figure is more that of the rustler, dry-gulcher, or rider of the owl hoot trail (1940s and 50s western movie terminology) than of the knight-errant of the Plains.

Yet, for the era of the mounted cowhand, this figure is much the superior model for the profession. As he tows the unseen, resisting calf off to the branding flame, the man's face records all the weariness, boredom – perhaps even hopelessness – of a dusty, dirty, menial job. He strikes me as staring vacantly into a future wihtout much promise. Even the horse appears pre-occupied with other, better business, perhaps happier days of youth long gone, and turns its head aside from the occupation.

Significant also is the physical nature of this painting. Man and mount appear to materialize out of the wood substrate. Thin paint over the rough surface imparts a transparency to them, as if they are insubstantial, fleeting, like ghosts of what they were, are certain to become, and even now are passing into the air.

In just this way, all of our lives and work take form from indistinct, temporary backgrounds, flourish for a time – if one is fortunate – and then thin, fade away, and are forgotten. This is more than a snapshot of a rancher's earning his daily bread; it is a lesson for everyone.