This week, all of Cottonwood is missing a cowboy

As I sat recently listening to so many close friends of a guy I thought was one whale of a cowboy, I wished I had known him better.

The times I did spend with Don Jones rounding up cattle reminded me of how those we come in contact with through life often significantly impact us.

I watched Don at rodeos and was amazed with the skill and strength he had. He surprised me one day as I watched him buckle on half-leggings made from thick leather just before he went into the arena. Later, I learned these devices gave protection from a stray kick as the rodeo pick-up men rescue the passenger on a bucking bronc.

As a journalist, I covered many rodeos over the years. I had an opportunity to interview Don several times, usually in a casual mode, as he usually became a man of few words when it came to the press.

Part of gaining his trust meant riding on roundups and participating in marking and branding cattle. I was always amazed at the way Don could throw a loop, catch a steer and make the job look simple.

His face, usually protected by sunglasses, always seemed to find a spot in my camera lens. I have the proof in my western photo album at home.

On one roundup, I made the mistake of a wearing short-sleeved shirt even though we were riding through thick brush east of Anderson. We were way out in the middle of nowhere and I wasn’t familiar with the terrain. While running my horse to turn back a couple of cows and calves into the herd, I dove into a thicket of buck brush. Ouch, ouch, ouch. The sharp branches stung my upper arm and left a blood trail behind. I ignored the pain because the job was more important than a simple scratch.

Back at the corrals, I got off my horse and tied it up while I hung out to see what else could hurt me. That was when a friend decided to take my photo, my crossed arms exposing my battle wounds.

Don walked by and grinned. “Well, you got initiated,” was all he said.

Then there was the time on the Nevada desert miles east of Cedarville, Calif. We camped at a little broken down shack of a barn and corrals. After a cold night’s sleep, I ate a quick breakfast, then my girlfriend and I wrangled up some food for the crew.

I was on the opposite side of the horse trailer from my mount when Don Jones came around the corner and said, “That sorrel horse of yours is bucking up a storm in one place. He’s just bucking and snorting.”

I gasped with panic knowing full well the horse was saddled.

“Is he kidding?” I wondered.

Don was known to joke with the crew, so I bravely answered, “Oh, he probably wants you to ride him first today, Don.”

He chuckled, walked to his horse and loaded it in the trailer.

I cautiously did the same, loading my horse that did seem to be more full of vim and vinegar than usual.

I still don’t know for sure if Don was messing with me or looking out for me with a heads-up.

Either way was okay with me. But I’m guessing if he was nearby, he’d be the first to pick me up out of the dust, anyway.

It’s going to be different driving by Roger’s Frosty on Main Street in Cottonwood and not seeing Don’s rig parked out front. He would often take a break from work while playing cards in the back room.

Don’t be surprised if Don’s son Rhett someday pulls on his dad’s boots and carries on in the cowboy spirit of the Jones’ family.

Say what you will, but the Jones family adds to the sometimes colorful but captivating western lifestyle of Cottonwood from the watering hole to the rodeo arena and livestock yard.

The Cottonwood Mother’s Day Rodeo would never have started without cowboys like Bobby Jones and his sons Don and Cody.

Dan Woolery, Jeff Davis and Jim Seale all shared humorous anecdotes about Don Jones during the cowboy’s recent memorial service.

Judging from the size of the wall-to-wall crowd, Cottonwood folks and those from beyond it are truly missing a cowboy this week and for some time to come.