THE WILD SEXTON STEER
One day in the spring of 1855, when all the folks were away except Gordon and myself, we felt somewhat elated that we were running the farm on our own hook, so we conjured up a little fun.
Our long barnyard opened with bars towards the house across the center to separate the cattle from the sheep. Here, just for sport, when no one was around, we would put up two or three bars and then chase the cattle, one by one, and see them jump over.
We had a ferocious wild steer, we called Sexton, which would jump over almost anything to get away from us boys, so he was usually our victim for sport.
Father was accustomed, each fall, to bring muck into the barnyard, which through the winter was covered with cornstalks, straw and manure from the stables, which the cattle would tread in during the rainy spring and mix it ready for the land. On this occasion it had been raining, and the mixture, soft as jelly, was about a foot deep, with the exception of a dry spot by the house bars.
Our custom was to teach all the newcomers into our ranch, or farm, to carry us on their backs, and as the bushes hung low in the pastures and the steers had no manes to cling to, we often got dumped, but we did not care for scratches and bruises, for I boasted to be able to hang to a frightened steer's tail through a bush pasture longer than any boy in the neighborhood.
On this occasion the wild Sexton steer was in the yard—a big black fellow, who was so mean that he would kick the boards off the barn, just if we tickled him with the tines of a pitchfork. Really, he was so unruly that he had no respect for the other cattle, or even a ten-rail fence, when Gordon and I, with the dog, got after him.
Forgetting we were going to prayer meeting that evening, and that we had already put on our Sunday clothes, I said to Gordon: