I have known C.B. Cox for at least 40 years. We first met in a barber shop and struck up a conversation about cows, good horses, good times, and living hard. I learned that he quit school in the eighth grade just to be a cowboy. The last of the good old cowboys, he didn’t wear square-toed boots. His hat showed his life in the weather. I think a horse wreck messed up his neck; he couldn’t turn his head very far. When looking around he turned his head as far as he could and cut his eyes the rest of the way.
A stranger asked, “Have you been a cowboy all your life?”
He responded, “Not yet.”
