Montie Humphrey ~ Texas’ First Black Ranch Foreman of a White Ranch

Ralph Semmes Jackson, in his book Home on the Double Bayou records that Montie had been born a slave on the Jackson Ranch and had spent his entire life breaking horses and working cattle on the old homestead.  “Montie was a prideful man whose love for the old ranch was perhaps greater than that of the owners,” wrote Ralph. “He stood on his feet and sat on a horse as if his backbone was made of steel. He was a forceful talker-all of his adjectives were cuss words, and his cuss-word vocabulary was full and complete. It is my honest belief that in many years since Montie's death. I have not heard a single cuss word that did not belong to his colorful vocabulary. Montie was almost speechless in the presence of my mother because he would not, upon the pains of death, utter a cuss word in the presence of Miss Berta."

“After the death of James Jackson, in 1895, his son Guy Cade Jackson Sr. took over operations of the ranch,” said Ralph. “Montie (which is pronounced "Monuntie") continued in much the same capacity. In the absence of my father (Guy Cade), he was in charge of the cattle work, and we boys jumped to his orders as quickly as to our father's commands," stated Ralph. 

In the aftermath of the 1915 Storm, Montie, accompanied by his neighbors, was saddled with the heartbreaking task of locating, identifying, and burying the bodies of friends and co-workers, ravaged by the storm. Ralph records that among the first ones found were Hugh Jackson and his 8-year-old grandson, Bennie.

Ralph wrote that in the spring all ranch activity increased as the cattle were gathered and worked and the fences, troughs, and other equipment repaired. “Late spring was roundup time—a time of excitement for a small boy,” wrote Ralph.” "As soon as it was light enough to see, all hands congregated at the round pen, where the horses were waiting. The order in which the horses were roped from the pen was governed by a rigid priority system. Montie Humphrey, the old colored foreman, would step first to the center of the pen with the noose of his rope open in his right hand and the coils held loosely in his left. As he started to twirl the noose slowly around his head the horses would crowd to the circular fence and start running around and around the roper, who continued to turn slowly on his heels, all the while whirling the rope over his head until he saw the head of Dad’s horse in the clear,” explained Ralph. “Then with one quick step forward and a graceful throw of the rope he sent the noose floating high for a second before settling over the head of the selected horse. Dad would step to the center of the pen, slip the bridle on, and lead his horse to the saddle house. Then Montie roped his own horse, and after that each hand roped his horse in turn according to his seniority as cowhand on the ranch.” Ralph lists a few: Fred Johnson, Jim Fish, and Pal Mayes. Once the horses were saddled, they would trot off towards the bottom of the pasture with Guy Cade and Montie leading the way.

Late in the afternoon the herd of cattle could be seen in the distance, approaching in a cloud of dust. Soon the sound of popping cow whips mingled with the shouts of the cowhands and the bellowing cattle could be heard as they pushed the herd towards the home pens. Then the work of separating, branding, vaccinating, worming, etc. would begin. 

“My grandpa worked for ole man James Jackson and his son Guy C Jackson,” said 91-year-old Aaron Humphrey, grandson of Montie Humphrey, “and he would hire men to work under him. They would round up the cows and drive them to White Ranch and then down to the train at High Island. They’d load the cattle on the train and ship them to market. Most of my grandpa’s sons worked on ranches, but a couple of them, Montie Jr. and Kyle, were conductors on the trains. They would travel between Louisianna and Houston and settled in Los Angelos, California.” 

“When I was a little boy, Grandpa Montie would come riding up on his horse to see my daddy,” continued Aaron. “He would turn his horse loose and let it drag the rope and go out with our horses. When he was ready to go he would tell me and my brother, Gene, ‘Boys, you go get my horse. I’m ready to go.’ We would go get his horse and bring it back to him and he would catch me by my arm and throw me up on his horse. My daddy told him, ‘Pappa, you’ll get my boy killed riding those half wild horses.’ My grandpa Montie took and pulled me off that saddle and put me right beside him and my older brother, Gene, and said ‘Ike, you don’t tell me! Aaron is like my son, named after my boy Aaron. Grandpa told me, ‘Boy, you’re just like my oldest son, Aaron.’ He told my daddy before he married, ‘Ike, when you get married you name your last boy after my son Aaron.’ My daddy said there used to be loose horses running wild and my Uncle Aaron would take two cans of pork and beans, a bag of coal, and a box of matches, roll them up in his slicker and put it on his horse and say, ‘I’ll see y’all later.’ They wouldn’t see him for four days. He roped a wild horse he saw riding with the group of wild ones and tied him to his horse. All the ranchers around there knew that when Aaron came back, he would have two horses. He would tell them, ‘Whish one do you want, the one I’ve been riding and caught the wild one with or the wild one?’ He was quite a cowboy.” Sadly, Aaron died at the young age of 30 as a result of lockjaw from a gunshot wound in his foot. This explains why Montie was so insistent that Ike name his last son Aaron. It appears that the second Aaron lived up to the cowboy lifestyle of his uncle. 

“I started riding when I was ten or twelve,” Aaron stated, “somewhere around in there, and when I got old enough, I would go and break horses and work on ranches and stuff. I worked on my nephew’s ranch and for O.C. Jackson. I rodeoed too, I used to rodeo at the Double Bayou arena on Jackson Road. My last rodeo was at White’s Park arena, and it cost $25 a man. I told my cousin Cora Lee’s boy, Raymond and my son Eric, ‘Y’all don’t have any money, I’m going to stake you.’ We were going to do team penning. I told Raymond I knew he could ride, and I had him borrow a horse from Felix Jackson. Eric had an old sorrel horse he used to rope off of and I told him, ‘Eric, that’s no cow horse.’ Cal Carrington said, ‘Eric can ride my horse.’ I paid $75 to the man at the arena and told Raymond to take Felix’s big sorrel horse and go on the back side. I had Eric go to the middle. When they called me up, I rode in on a little ole horse I had trained, I called him ole Ringo. He was a little ole bay horse. I was working on the last brahma calf, and he tried to jump the pipe fence and fell backwards. I hollered at Raymond and Eric to bring the others on around and that little brahma fell right in with them. Then I heard the guy over the speaker say, ‘We’ve got a new winner.’ I thought, oh, brother, that sounds good, I knew I had $700 coming to me. When I rode out on ole Ringo they said, ‘There goes our new winner, he just won $700.’” I detected a hint of delight in his voice as he concluded, “I just tipped my hat to them.  Quinten stepped up and told Felix, “You and Pop,’ that’s what they called O.C., ‘y’all need to get Aaron to work cows for you.’ 

“When my son, Eric was in school he showed a brahma calf and I have all kinds of trophies in my den that he won. I have three granddaughters. And they show different stuff. The youngest one placed first at Hamshire and Beaumont in 2023 or ‘24 with her calf and then sixth at the Houston Livestock Show. We are blessed to have them. I trained horses and worked on ranches just like my grandpa did. From my grandpa down to my grandchildren it just looks like God put us on earth to work cattle and horses,” proclaimed Aaron with a hint of pride in his aged voice. 

“One time, I helped Roy Dawson move about 300 head of cows to the JHK Ranch by the game reserve. He would go ahead with his dogs and open up the gates and I would bring up the rear. He had two dogs, and I had two, I never will forget my two dogs’ names, they were Missy and Rock. Roy Dawon hollered back at me and said, ‘Aaron, I’ve got four cows across that ditch.’ We called it a ditch, but it was about thirteen or fourteen feet wide and I know it was about twenty feet deep. I got up to where I seen them four cows. I could talk to those dogs and they would look up at me like they were saying, ‘what else you want me to do?’ I said, ‘Missy, take old Rock over there and go get them four cows and bring them back to me on this side.’ Those dogs went over there to those cows, God knows, they run them until they got them right to the water. Ole Missy and ole Rock got after one of the and made her swim across and they knew to go back and get them other three. They made them jump in and swim across, then came and got right next to me and my horse and stayed with me. They were good dogs,” he said more to himself as he recalled his beloved work partners. 

“When I was 55 years old, I bought a palomino from a woman in Hankamer. The lady sold him to me for $800 and I paid a lady to train him. Eric and I went to see him and they opened the gate and she ran him down the pen. She would talk to him just like I’m talking to you. She took the bridle off of him and hung it on the fork tree and told the man, ‘run that steer back by me.’ And she had him cuttin’ back and forth, and I told my son, Eric, ‘Write her a check for $500 for training him.’ She told me , ‘No, I have fourteen more days to put on him.’ I told her no, you don’t have fourteen more days, I done rode horses and throwed steers myself,’ and I brought him on home. He just died last year, he was 34 years old. I’m 91 years old now.”