“Well, I know some day, farther down the road,
I’ll come to the edge of the Great Unknown;
There’ll stand a black horse, riderless,
And I wonder if I’m ready for this”…
–Chris LeDoux, ‘The Ride’

 

Since learning of my brother Barry’s passing, folks have contacted me wanting to know more about him.

Barry was born in Alpine in 1963, likely about a century too late. An eighth generation Texan, he got his first taste of the cowboy life alongside our dad and granddad in the lower parts of the Big Bend.

That’s he and I on those two mounts, Barry was barely five sitting atop a blazed-faced bay we called ‘Grandpa.’ But even at five, he could knock out my dad’s tracks all day long up and down Terlingua Creek, into The Cottonwood and along the eastern reaches of El Solitario; hanging on like a blue tick to a hound dog.

You see, he always wanted to be a cowboy.

In later years people would marvel at how good a cowboy he really was, as well as a stockman. Not me. If you can keep from breaking your fool neck chasing after some half-wild, crazy eyed cow across half the lower Big Bend, you can cowboy most anyplace.

Now I haven’t been on the back of a horse in decades, choosing instead to go straight into the Marines from high school and then a career as a peace officer.

Brother Lyndon went the cowboy way for a while and became known as a fair hand at breaking horses. Ultimately he went the same way as I, a Texas peace officer and a darn good one at that. Though he still does general work on a ranch, his cowboying days are over.

But with Barry, it was a way of life and he never gave much thought to wanting to be anything else.

He knew who he was, what he was and what he stood for. He did what he thought was right, was strong for his Lord, and never took in a breath that wasn’t free.

I’d call that bountiful blessings and a life well lived.

Some weeks later on a Sunday morning, I was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee listening to Red Stegall’s Cowboy Corner. The sun was rising over Hancock Hill and peeking through the pines, the warmth signaling yet another spring coming on.

It was then it finally hit me: Barry was gone.

And with him a way of life that is going much the same direction. Sometimes it’s hard to remember what this country used to be, even a few short years ago. It’s never going back to what it was. When these big ranches in West Texas get busted up, they stay that way.

One thing’s for certain, I’m sure glad Barry wanted to be a cowboy. Not only for him but for that way of life, for each was directly linked to the other in mindset, philosophy and ethics.

You know, my family and kin came to Texas during Spanish rule and helped get that way of life started. They were the ones who pushed those longhorns up the Chisholm, the Shawnee, the Western and the Goodnight-Loving.

They braved searing heat, bitter cold, flooded rivers and forty miles of hard, tough going with not a drop of water along the way, time and again.

They were the ones that books were written about, ballads were sung and legends grown upon.

They were the true believers, just like Barry and I find it fitting that he was around for the final act.

And when his time came he mounted that riderless black, tipped his hat, and rode away into that Great Unknown.

A cowboy.

 

Ben H. English

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Black and white photo of two young boys in cowboy hats riding horses.
Black and white photo of a young boy looking directly at the camera, with desert scenery behind him.
Black and white photo of a young boy on horseback with desert scenery behind him.
Barry English riding his favorite horse, Cando.
Barry English, a genuine cowboy, smiling at a celebration for his nephew's graduation from the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland.