The Texas Quote of the Day: "In 1901, one of the most isolated districts in the United States was on the Texas-New Mexico line one hundred and fifty miles from a railroad. Four of us were employed in breaking horses on the old Block ranch, and on the Sunday in question, we saddled our broncs with no other thought than of another hard day's work. About 10 o'clock a ragged kid loped up on a horse which showed his place was drawing a wagon, and not being used as a saddle horse. "Please, Mr. Cowboys," he said, "Ma is orful sick at our wagon, and pa sent me to ask one uf you to go to Plainview atter a doctor." At that time in the west you acted first and asked questions afterwards. The fact that a sick woman probably lay dying at a lone camp was sufficient to cause action. Fifteen minutes later the saddle band was in the corral, and as I spread a loop for throwing I had already selected the horse for that life and death ride. He was known as the B J Brownlow, an outlaw. Sired by a Kentucky stallion, crossed with a mustang mare, he possessed the speed and endurance of an antelope, the disposition of a hyena. Quickly saddled, and because I was the youngest and the lightest rider there, I was soon on my way. After a wild spell of bucking this horse settled down into a half gallop, that had formerly carried him countless miles with the wild bunch over the same prairie he was now traversing. Finally I began to pull him down occasionally to catch his breath. Then on again in that tireless lope. The first stop was at Lazy S line camp thirty miles away. How thankful I was to draw near it for I, as well as the horse was beginning to feel the strain. Riding up to the dugout I found it deserted and no horses in sight. The next ranch was twenty-five miles farther on. Could he make it? I had ridden hard expecting a fresh mount there. Five minutes rest for him, two swallows of water, and I was off again. Lope! Lope! The miles fell behind. Sweat broke out all over the horse's head, and lathered his sides, but his wild spirit never flagged. He was game. Five miles from the next ranch I saw the owner riding toward a gate where we would converge. I quickened up the speed although I could feel B J hitting the ground flat footed, the spring all gone from his muscles. One hundred yards from the gate he suddenly stopped, tried to go on, then with a scream which has haunted me to this day, sprang into the air and fell dead. Five minutes later a fresh rider was dashing to Plainview while I leisurely went to the camp to rest. The doctor arrived. The woman died, but her child lived. As I returned next day and passed the gate, I saw where the coyotes were working havoc on the remains of B J Brownlow, a hero who gave his life for mankind." ------- Max Coleman of Lubbock, Texas, writing in the Frontier Times, December 1930
