Henry Brown
Henry Brown was another Scottish sheep rancher I worked for. Henry was a big man, fearless and strong. Once when I was working for Henry, I came onto a rattlesnake in the sage brush. I was just watching it coil and rattle when Henry asked me what I was doing. Oh, I've got a rattlesnake over here under a sage brush. Henry walked over to take a look, then jumped up in the air and came down right on top of that snake. He stomped it to death with his boots.
Henry owned the Figure 8 Sheep Company. One fall, above Lander, when I was herding for the Robertson's I noticed a big lamb among the ewes with the Figure 8 brand on it. Sheep of various ranches and companies often got mixed up on the sheep trails to and from the mountains to the desert, so there was nothing unusual about finding this lamb among Robertson's ewes and lambs. Nor was there anything unusual for a herder to butcher a lamb of another sheep outfit for camp meat. It was an unwritten understanding of the Old West that you never ate your own beef or lamb. There was always a stray belonging to someone else that you could butcher and eat.
So, I had just finished butchering this Figure 8 lamb, when who should come riding through the timber but Henry Brown. I hurried to fold the hide so it was wool to wool; I wanted to hide the brand.
But Henry was on to me. He noticed the difference in the wool type sticking out around the edges of the hide.
"What do you have there, Alex?"
"Oh, I'm just butchering a lamb for camp meat, Henry."
"Whose is it," Henry inquired, "I know its not your own."
With that Henry kicked the pelt open revealing his Figure 8 brand. Henry was such a good friend, I blushed with shame. "I'm sorry Henry," I said. "You caught me red handed." And red handed I was, because I had the blood of Henry's lamb on my hands.
"That's alright, Alex, " Henry teased: "I've got one of your strays in my corral right now; I just haven't gotten around to butchering it. Say, Alex, If you're going to make a stew of that lamb of mine, do you mind if I drop in on my way back for meal of it?"
Henry was a man few wished to cross, although among friends Henry was a generous, likeable fellow.
After he left the sheep business he worked for a time as a policeman in Lander. One fourth of July, I met Henry downtown patrolling the street. By this time Henry was in his late fifties. A belligerent drunk came up and said something to Henry that Henry took offence at. Henry grabbed the drunk by the shoulders and with one continuous motion, threw him bodily into the back of a pickup to haul him off to jail.
"You stay in there," Henry said, a note of threat in his voice, "If you jump out, you will really be in for it."
As Henry drove off to the jail, the drunk sat up in the back of the pickup looking completely confused about what had happened, but he didn't try to jump out. I imagine Henry let the drunk sleep it off in jail overnight, then let him out in the morning.
