When I was a kid picking cotton in Texas, certain drugstore cowboys sang a song that went: When it’s roundup time in Texas, And the bloom is on the sage, Hear the breakfast horn In the early morn, And forget to act your age! Well, anyone with half a holster knows I don’t have the words right, but the spirit is there—which sort of explains why I’m sitting in crowded bleachers at the Wichita Country Mounted Patrol Arena on an August evening waiting for the Texas Ranch Roundup to begin.
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