Now, when you’re a young cowboy with no sense, you have to chew tobacco or snuff. Not ‘cause you like the taste of the stuff, but you’ve got to show the world that you’re tough. You don't care if it looks nasty - that’s just what you’ve got to do. So you’ll have a big old bleached out ring in your pant's back pocket, where you carry that snuff can. So as you are walking away, it kind of shows the world where you carry your sense. I was one of those who just had to do it this way, wouldn’t listen to anyone. That was until one hot summer afternoon, something got my attention in a big way.

I was about 22 at the time, still living at the ranch in New Mexico. Had a young colt that I was breaking. I called him Liston, which in Spanish means blazed face. He was a pretty good sort of colt. He was coming along pretty good, up until that afternoon. We got a good hard rain, damn sure needed it in that powder house of a place. After it quit raining, I went down to the barn to get some feed for Liston. I got a bucket of grain, and would go back later and get a chunk of hay for him after he finished the grain. I had a big dip of Copenhagen snuff in my lower lip as I headed to where Liston stood. I had him out in a big water lot, where he could run and play. The wet, cold rain brought it all out in him, and he ran round and round in the corral. When I reached the gate, he came running ‘cause he knew what I had for him.

I petted him, and leaned down to pick up the bucket. When I stood up and turned around, that’s the last thing that I remember. Liston had whirled and kicked high into the air, his right hind hoof got me right between the eyes. I was down and out like a light, for just how long, I’m not sure. When I did come to, I took one of those outer space trips, as I saw all the stars and planets. I was covered with blood as if I’d been shot. I staggered to my feet, wondering just what the hell had hit me. I walked like a drunken man, one who’d just drank a bottle of tequila, worm and all.
I made my way to the house. Things were really fuzzy. Mom and Dad asked me what had happened, but they pretty well knew. They loaded me up in the pickup and headed for the sawbones in Las Cruces. It was a slow trip - the old dirt road was a river of water. I guess I had a lot of blood in those days - damn near bled to death before we got there.

Once we got to his office, he kind of seemed mad, as it was on a Sunday afternoon. I guess I had messed up his golf game, but that wasn’t one of my worries at the time. He took a couple of stitches and told me I had a concussion. He said that if I made it until the next morning, I would probably not die. My head was hurting, the sawbones didn’t give me any pain killers. I asked him for a double shot of whiskey, but he was a nondrinker. Dad paid the bill and we headed back to the ranch.

The trip back to the ranch seemed to take forever. I felt every bump in the road. Dad was a pretty good driver, but he damn sure hit a lot of bumps that trip.