REAL AMERICAN COWBOY

It's  our practice to pull the rig off the road about every 50 miles for a break.  We scout the countryside, have a bite to eat and walk-out the kinks before we take another bite out of the highway.

Thirty miles north of Arthur, NE, we had made one of our refresher stops.  The landscape is rolling in these parts and nothing but grass, beef-on-the-hoof and a few shrubs are on the horizon. This is more desolate than the southwest desert, not a house, silo, grocery or gas station within 50 miles.

I was outside the rig taking pictures when I noticed an old pick-up cresting a rise some half mile in the distance.  We had backed the rig off the highway into a grassy two-track that led to a barbed wire and stick gate.  When the pick-up turned in our direction I thought that the driver wanted to access the field by the path on which we were sitting.  As the truck pulled off the highway, I walked in that direction to see if we were blocking his way.

"No, not in the least," the young man said as he removed his hat in courtesy and continued with, "I wondered if y'all was having any problems and stopped to see if I might be of any help."

Meet Magnus Hawkins, age somewhere around 21, an all American Cowboy. His business is cows, and plenty of them. Thousands of acres are owned and managed along with thousands of grazing beef.  This young man could step onto a movie set or socialize in high society with equal grace.  It's seldom one is gifted with meeting "the real McCoy."  His voice was strong, calm, sure, and unpretentious.  Words of his local land and everyday workings rolled from him like a statesman of stature.  Jackie talked with him about horses, as is her interest, and he gave an eloquent, short, succinct lecture in the vocabulary/colloquialisms of his trade using terms such as "rank and put a stud on a mare" with the ease of Mark Twain.  It was pure delight to listen to him talk...and I could have listened until...well...until the cows came home.

I noticed his spurs and asked of their origin.  "My daddy has a forge and was sort of a blacksmith and he taught me the trade," He answered,  assuredly as he was proud.  I asked if he made spurs for sale.  "Nope, just use em my own self."

Not much left of the town, just a hardware/feed store and the area's ranch brands.

Magnus, you are my hero!