I used to hear the old cowpokes around here talk about getting gored, or some other really horrendous wounds to either themselves, their horses, or the cattle in their charge while on some of the last cattle drives from Tx to Ks. They would pour sugar into the wound and if it was really serious, 'fire it' by sticking a stick from the campfire directly into the wound. I suspect if the treatment didn't kill the patient, they weren't all that seriously injured. But, I have to wonder if honey would coat a tree wound enough that it could heal up on it's own.
Of course, 'with a grain of salt', I have to remember the man who used to tell these stories was Old Mr. Floyd. Mr. Floyd was a little bitty man, old and hard. He ran cows on our property, and would come by to discuss whatever men talk about. Occasionally my Dad would send me to the house because the talk would turn to 'bulls'. (probably bullshit, but he didn't want me to pick up on whatever palaver was about to be spilled.) I only knew Mr. Floyd was a very mean old man. He had dogs, cattle, horses, and none of them really liked him much. His cows would get out of the fence, and he'd force them to go back in the hole they came out of, no matter if the gate was within riding distance or not. mean, ya know? But he was of that last cowboy era, maybe it was all he knew. He'd be the cattle buyer from this area, going around picking up strays, cows up off Old Boggy and round up enough to make up a sizeable stringer then take out, looking for some trail ride to join with. It's a lost era and lost with the passing of men like mean Mr. Floyd. I only wish I'd been a little older so I could remember more of his stories, and learned about more of the way of life that he missed so much that it made him bitter. He had a great saddle, I learned to ride in that saddle. It felt like glove leather and was like sitting in a Lazy Boy lounger. He couldn't possibly have fit that saddle, but he used it until he couldn't swing it on a horse any more. It had a huge roping horn on it, and it looked like it'd snagged many a boogery ol cow.. It took a stout horse to carry Mr. Floyd, but only because he'd run himself and the horse to exhaustion before it occurred to him that either might want a drink at some point. Did I say he was mean?
