He was an ornery cuss; I could see it glinting in his eyes and bulging out all over him.  But he was sick and a good quarter mile from home.  I eased the four-wheeler up behind him and his brother, 112, and started moving them back towards the corrals and squeeze chute where I could get some drugs into him and on the path to recovery. 

They both put the moves on me and tried to outwit me, although they didn’t have much energy since it was a very warm afternoon.  I used all the calf-savvy I had and actually managed to get them both home and into the holding pen without either of them splitting off.  That’s when he really turned up the smoke.  He seemed intent on demolishing everything around.  I kept a ready foot up on one rail just in case and sure enough, he came straight for me, head down and moving at what seemed a slick 40 m.p.h. 

“Okay, buster, if that’s how you move, I’ll show you what’s coming down the pipes,” I said.

I medicated him and he tore out of the chute, ready for the next Dodge City days rodeo.  Me, not so much.  I penned him with a bunch of new calves that were still moving slow from being shipped in and figured he could stay there a few days and settle out.

A few days turned into a couple of months, and it was time to clean out the home corrals and send everything to the pasture.  We were running everything through the chute for branding when I heard the gate down the alley getting a real working over. 

Yep, Red 113 again. 

I didn’t quite enjoy branding him, but I might have if I had let myself.  We got ready to load, and I told Bryce, “Watch Red 113.  He’s a bad one.”  Bryce said, “Yeah I saw him already.  I’ll keep clear.”

Everything went jostling up into the trailer in his group, so I went back to get another bunch.  I turned around and things had slowed down a bit up by the trailer; I saw Bryce leaning against the fence a little crooked like and upon a closer inspection, I saw his face wasn’t its usual tan.  He hobbled over to the other side of the alley and lay down in some weeds. 

I finished penning the ones I was working with and went to where Bryce was now up and leaning against the rail. 

“What’s going on,” I asked. 

“It’s that 113,” he said.  “Smashed my leg against the rail.

“Sit back down and let’s look at it.”

“No.”

“Why not?  Come on, let’s take a quick look.”

“No.” It’s not that bad, and besides, I was laying in an ant pile.”

It was worse than he thought.  I took him in and got an Xray.  They said it was a bruised bone.  I hadn’t heard of such before but judging from his hobbling around for the next couple of weeks and the kaleidoscope of colors that shot across his leg, I’m thinking it must have been rather painful and their prognosis probably right.

Every bunch has one or two like red 113.  And you know what?  I suspicion that while they may seem a bit onery or a little hard to get along with, most likely they are the unnoticed geniuses among us.