Texas: Close to the Land

(See Cover)

"It's too hard to find the ranch if you don't know the country," explained the Governor's press secretary in Austin. "You drive south from San Antonio to Floresville. You turn left on the road to Pleasanton. You go exactly seven miles west out this road. There, at exactly 9:45 a.m., a car will be parked at the side of the road. It will either be a Pontiac or a Land Rover. The Governor will be in it."

He was. Texas' Democratic Governor John Connally wore Western boots, a big felt Stetson, checkered sports shirt, tan twill pants. His right arm, in a cast from the wrist to the elbow, was supported by a black-bandanna sling. "I'll ride with you," the Governor told his visitor. "Turn right and go on down that road. We've got some work to do on these roads, but they aren't as bad as they look."

The hills around Floresville (pop. 2,126) projected gentle arcs of tans and greys against the blue sky. Most of the dull-colored range grass lay dormant, the landscape enlivened only by the greenery of prickly pear cactus. But on the 4,500-acre Connally family spread, the cactus had been routed, mesquite trees dragged out by chain, the land plowed deep, and a lush cover of coastal Bermuda grass planted. "Five years ago, there was nothing here, nothing at all," said Connally. "The land had been all but given up for hopeless. Now it will support up to ten times its former number of cattle, besides being good for cutting hay and for pulling up sprigs of grass to sell to other ranchers."

A herd of fat cattle, their high flanks glowing deep brown in the sun, blocked the narrow dirt road. "I didn't know they were going to be here," said Connally. "But since they are, let's get out and look at them.

"They are fine heifers—deep-bodied, fine animals. They are the product of Santa Gertrudis heifers bred to Hereford bulls—a fine combination." A young Mexican cowhand drove the cattle from atop a ponylike animal. "It's not a pony at all. It's a Galiceno horse, a direct descendant of the horses the Spaniards brought from Europe. They've got the lines of a thoroughbred in miniature. Look at him go."

Away from Things. The car passed through a gate marked "Four C Ranch." Said Connally: "This is my children's property. The Cs stand for children.* I bought this spread for them, and I like them to come down and use it as much as they can. It's good for a person to get back to the soil, away from things, back here where you can think."

Near an earthen dam squatted a low, one-room camp house where Connally, 46, and his wife Nellie, 44, spend many weekends. Mounted deer heads, shot by the family, adorn the walls. Indian blankets cover the beds. Changing his clothes, Connally stepped out of his trousers, took off his shirt. "Here is where the bullet came in," he said, pointing to a small pink scar on his right side. "That is where it went out. These scars are where they had the tubes. This is where they made the incision." The wounds, of course, came from the sniper's fire that killed lohn F. Kennedy in Dallas on Nov. 22.