In the sand hills near Nara Visa, New Mexico there is a monument. A humble monument. Stones arranged in a rectangle six by three feet. On one end of the stacked stones a larger rock with “Cowboy, 1901” chiseled into it.
For 125 years Cowboy has laid at rest. His name lost to history. Known only by his occupation. Even the person who took time to bury him and leave the simple headstone is unknown to us today. The area of the grave is remote. Over a century ago it would have been no less remote.
One can only wonder the condition of Cowboy when found. We don’t have a day of death, no month, only a year. Lightning strike, blizzard, heart attack, horse mishap, or old age could have robbed him of life. We will never know.
We know there was a man who in 1901 took his last breath, alone on the open prairie. A man who made a living from the land. More than likely he never owned any of it except for the little piece under those stones.
We can imagine him there with boots and hat. Worn Levi’s and a weather-beaten canvas jacket buttoned up. His horse eventually pulling loose from its picket and joining range stock. Leaving Cowboy’s head resting on a saddle seat. Field mice would have gotten to his tobacco pouch. Scavengers would do what scavengers have done since man first laid down for his final rest.
The twentieth century did not welcome Cowboy into the age of machines. What ever dreams or aspirations he held were lost along with his name. How must he have felt on the second to last breath? Alone in that moment. I hope he believed. I hope for his sake, Saint Peter wore a hat and the book of life a tally book pulled from a shirt pocket. I hope he found the big pasture green and fellow brethren. I hope I can meet him one day and learn his name.
