11
We arrive in Flagstaff on a beautiful sunny morning. Why we should have chosen Flagstaff, I will never know, except it was the end of the line for us or as far as our free tickets would take us. After all, we had to light somewhere and make more dough before taking off again. It is just as well that it be here in Flagstaff.
Taking a gander at the town and surrounding country from the depot, we find ourselves in a very picturesque setting where the railroad runs almost through the town center. The main business block is just across the street from where we are standing. Saloon signs are heavily displayed, and we are close to refreshments.
The surrounding district is high, with mountains looming in the near distance. A large observatory perches on a hill overlooking the town. The most conspicuous place in sight is Black’s Saloon, and as we cross the street to have breakfast, we run into a real friend of ours from home, Guy Galbrieth, a very old friend of our families and a fellow we have both known all our lives. Guy is a cattle buyer and is in Flagstaff to accept shipment on some steers he bought last fall and had enough sense not to ship home late in the season but wintered in Arizona on the Little Colorado. Otherwise, had he shipped them home, he would have lost the herd.
Guy is so glad to see us that the whole world looks better just by meeting this old friend. We are introduced to Mr. Black. Set up in business on the main stem in town, just across from the depot, coming or going he has the first and last crack at the thirsty. His is the welcoming tavern for the coming and the weeping room for the departing. A nice arrangement.
After several portions of Mr. Black’s best and a very little breakfast, we give our friend the lowdown on Denver and our future plans. At least I tell him I am all through with cattle and breaking horses. I want a nice quiet job with lots of money, no work and, above all, no broncs.
Guy knows everyone in and around Arizona, so we feel pretty sure of a good job. He wants us to go home with him when he ships out his train of steers for Denver. Finding we are not interested in going home, he gives us the picture as it is, in and around Flagstaff. There are three possibilities: be a lumberjack, a cowpuncher or a sheepherder. Take your choice. At the word sheepherder, we damned near killed the guy. No respectable cowhand will even eat sheep, and as for a lumberjack, what the hell could we do in a lumber camp? Then we think of our letter to Babbitt from Billy Degan. This he reads and says, “Brownie, I’ll take you and the letter over to their office. They will give you some kind of a job, but I have a good job for Fred — it’s tough but big money, and I will recommend you both.”
I say, “Listen, Guy, not so fast. I have a suspicion you didn’t hear me when I said no more bucking horses for me. I gave all my equipment away to Bud except my boots and spurs. And of one thing I am sure, there is a horse or horses back of this fancy job, so tell me the worst.”
“Well, Son, you are no lumber man. You are too damned lazy to herd sheep. Anyway, I wouldn’t recommend you to do either. But you can ride, so listen. Yesterday I was talking to Tom Aikens, the brand inspector who has a cattle ranch out near Lake Mary, and he wants a good cowpuncher to join the Thursten Wagon, down Apache Maid way. You would fit the job perfectly, with better money than you have ever made, and you will be out three months before you see Flagstaff again. Look at the dough you will save.”
“Listen, Guy, tell me the worst. Why hasn’t this inspector hired a local boy if the job is so swell? Who does one have to kill, or what the hell is eating you? You have talked all around the bush. Now, how many damned horses does a fellow have to break? I have no saddle, and I am not going to take the job.”
Brownie is a big help. He comes up with: “You can have my entire outfit. And this fellow might take us both and we can borrow a saddle.”
While we are arguing what I am not going to do, a big moose of a fellow with a hearty handshake and infectious grin joins us at the bar with the greeting “Guy, have you found me a top hand?”
You would think I was a bottle of nothing when Guy says, “Tom, I sure have, brought him all the way from Colorado. In fact, two of them. Can you use both boys? They would be a good team.”
This bird I like, but not his job. He starts on me as though I am hired, saying he will get Brownie a job wrangling for some outfit if I will go to work for him. All I have to do is stay at his camp near Lake Mary and break ten horses to ride good enough to take on the roundup to last three months, then travel to Apache Maid, which is the name of a big mountain many miles from Mormon Lake. And this would be through heavy timber country, even more so than in the Mazatzal Mountains out from Phoenix where I broke my leg.
No wonder he hadn’t anyone to take the job, to batch and break this string of wild horses all by oneself with no one within miles. A fellow would be crazy to work alone in a rough country full of rocks and trees. He would be nuts. So, I take the job. Right away, Mr. Aikens is full of glee. He offers us both an advance of dough, which for once we don’t need, with his promise to take care of Brownie. I borrow all the kid’s riding equipment and agree to start for the Aikens camp the next day with Brownie’s saddle and a buck-board of groceries driven by a Mexican kid. I start on the toughest and most dangerous experience of my life as a cowpuncher. It is unbelievable to me, but it all happened.
With a team of mules and leading a saddle horse, the Mexican boy and I leave Flagstaff early in the morning. The first few miles out are easy, but then we run out of road. Any resemblance to a road is only a trail over boulders and hills for the next thirteen miles to the Aikens camp at the edge of Lake Mary. During our trip to camp, the Mexican boy brought me up to date on the kind of trouble I was in for and why no one had taken the job before. He was not trying to scare me, only giving me the facts. The rest was up to me. It seemed there were ten unbroken horses and only one well broken cow pony at Aikens Ranch. And among the ten unbroken horses was a big iron gray outlaw that had severely injured two cowpunch-ers who had tried to ride him. The other nine had never been touched. A fine prospect to end a brilliant future — mine. Dropping down a mountain only fit for a goat to travel, we and the buckboard and groceries arrive at the one-room frame shack that is the Aikens headquarters. There is a cook stove, a bed in the corner, a table and a cupboard for groceries, and one is surrounded with all the comforts of the Aikens home camp. The shack is on the edge of a creek, and across from this are the two rail corrals, one a real large high corral, the other much smaller in the corner of the large corral.
Telling the Mexican boy to take his saddle horse and run the horses in the corral while I cook something to eat, I get busy and cook some bacon, open a can of pork and beans, make some biscuits and put on a pot of coffee. With a can of cherries for dessert, we have a good meal, and my Mexican companion, with food under his belt, is on his way. He was only hired to bring me out, not to see me slaughtered, so he is gone.
It is just past twelve and I am alone with a corral of unbroken horses except one. This is against all the laws of humanity, but worst of all, I don’t only have horses to break, but they have to be shod before I go to the roundup, as the rocks are murder on their feet. Even without carrying a man, their feet get very tender. This is a country where a cow pony must have shoes. Now the Mexican boy tells me this on the way out — the boss didn’t have the guts, was just going to let me learn the hard way. And shoe a horse I never have, not even a gentle one, as in our country we only use shoes in winter on our winter horses, and that very seldom is done and, if so, it is always done by an expert blacksmith. To hell with the shoes. I have to break them before shoes are needed. There is no reason to worry at this time. Shoes can wait.
Taking thirty minutes rest before wandering over to see my future steeds, I wonder how anyone can get in this kind of a mess, without even trying. The day is beautiful and I have no business here, but here I am, alone with the kind of work ahead of me that no one person is supposed to do alone.
It is not a question of help, it is just some human being around in the event of an accident. Promising myself one thing, that as I am alone, I shall take every advantage, I wander over to the corral to see my ponies. Sitting on the top rail of the corral, I size the bunch up. They are wild but don’t look too bad. The big gray has rollers in his nose. When he throws his pretty head in the air, he lets out with a noise which scares even him. He is a beautiful iron gray, with a long mane and tail, a wide forehead and deep chest, but regardless of everything a good eye. This baby I like immediately and decide he is a big bluff. All he needs is a friend, so I call him Gray Eagle and head for my rope and saddle. Running all the others except the big gray into the smaller corral, I am left with Gray Eagle, who senses something different from his past experience with man, because he turns and faces me, not with fear but wonderment, as though he would like to make friends. All my disgust of a short while ago has gone. I am in my glory, alone, with a beautiful animal with whom I am soon to be good friends.
Just the two of us and I hate what I have to do, but the big boy is powerful and I have to take the advantage, for I must thin out his mane and tail and break him to lead so I can pet that beautiful head. It has to be done, so here goes! I push him into a corner with my rope ready. When he breaks past me, I toss the rope over his front feet and, when he’s off the ground with them, give a stiff pull. The beauty hits the ground, hard. Quickly pulling his right hind foot up to the front feet, I have him down where he won’t go anyplace. I put a war bridle over his pretty head to teach him to lead, and tie up his left back foot with a cotton rope to his neck so that when he is up, he can’t kick. His foot will just touch the ground. I release his front feet and right back foot, and he is on his feet with sweat breaking out all over. The big bad guy is now mine. I am in no hurry. His left hind leg is so he can’t kick me, but when he stands still, it just touches the ground. The war bridle over his head is a large loop in his mouth with the rope over and around his head, so when I tighten the rope it pulls up on his mouth and is damned uncomfortable. If I pull on this slightly, he will soon find that when he comes to me, the rope slackens and the hurt in his mouth is less. Soon he will be following me like a dog.
Petting the big boy and pulling his mane and tail, I pay no attention to his objections to having his tail cleaned out, and he quickly gets the idea that I am his friend and don’t want to hurt him. The big boy quits all foolishness. All he wanted was to be friends in the first place. In less than thirty minutes I have removed the rope from his neck to his foot and he is following me all over the corral and is enjoying being petted and talked to, just like a human. I have a real good friend that has to be saddled and taught the art of being a good cow pony, but this will all be easy, so while I am in the mood, I again tie up the left hind foot so it will just touch the ground, putting on a hackamore in place of a war bridle. I pet and play with him, getting the big boy used to the smell of my saddle blanket and saddle, put it on and take it off till he is completely used to the feel and knows it won’t hurt. I quickly tighten up the cinch and he is saddled. Continuing to pet and talk to my friend, I put my weight in the stirrup, then gently slip into the saddle. This I do a dozen times until he is used to me climbing on and off, then quickly untie my rope to his foot so he is free to buck or do anything that he wishes. With a light pat on the neck, my beautiful gray trots around the big corral without even one buck. He seems glad about the whole thing. Climbing on and off a few times, I give my new friend a rest for the day. He is a beauty. A fellow could almost work for nothing just to have a horse like Gray Eagle.
Having made better time than I expected working with the big horse, I took on one more for the day, a big bay. He was almost red. His hair was so slick he just glistened. This horse had none of the wild characteristics of the gray and was just as quick to respond to kind treatment, and I had nothing but time. I gave the big bay a lot of petting and the name Red Bird.
I had now on my first afternoon acquired for myself two beautiful new horses. They needed much work, with much to learn, all of which would come soon to them. The other eight would be easy. I would be on time at the Apache Maid roundup. Only the shoeing was going to be tough for me. Having never shod a horse in my life, I would have something to learn.
After a good night’s rest and with the satisfaction of work well done with Gray Eagle and Red Bird, I take the gentle cow pony which I held in the corral for the night and run the bunch of ten future cow ponies in the big corral. Putting all the horses in the small corral except the big gray, I toss my rope over his head. He doesn’t even tighten the rope but lets out with a big whistle and snort, throws his beautiful head in the air and trots up to me with no fear, just a little nervousness, which quickly disappears with a few words and a little petting.
He shows no fear of the hackamore I slip on his head. I then try saddling him without tying up his back foot, and much to my surprise this beautiful horse that has been classed as an outlaw gives me no trouble, stands for the saddle and my mounting without even trying to buck. In the big corral, I give him quite a workout, which he seems to enjoy. He moves with a strength and grace of power unusual in most horses in such a short time. Now for the real test! I step off and open the big gate to the outer world, where, if he throws me off or goes wild and stampedes or falls, I have no way to catch my horse or saddle. This is always the danger of one man working alone. All this I knew when I took the job. I should have taken a job as a ribbon clerk in some department store, where there are no horses, just dames and that’s good. There’s nothing wrong with dames.
Gray Eagle and I seem to be just right for each other. He gives me no trouble, and anything he learns once he never forgets. He is the very finest out of hundreds that I have broken. With him and the big bay, I will have a couple of fine cow ponies before the roundup is over. At the end of my eighth day at Mr. Aikens’ camp, I have ridden all of my ten horses. Only two gave me real trouble, a little sorrel and a curly-haired blue. This pair were about the same size and didn’t respond to kind treatment like the others. They were determined to be bucking horses, whether I liked it or not. After three days of playing with these two babies, using no rough tactics when they bucked, hoping they would see the light and respond to kind treatment, I reversed the procedure and worked them both over, but good. The results were amazing. They were the kind who only understood rough treatment; once conquered, these make good ponies but never in a class with the others. They were strictly a one-man’s horse and would always give a stranger trouble.
On the tenth day, Mr. Aikens showed up from Flagstaff with some shoes and shoeing equipment for the eleven horses I would take to the roundup. The guy was so pleased with my work, he even agreed to help shoe the bunch. Damned nice of the old boy. After all, they were his horses and I didn’t even know that the nails holding the shoes had to go in a certain way. It is an old story to him, but when we come to the big gray, who lets a couple of snorts go when Mr. Aikens comes in the corral, this scares the hell out of my honorable boss so I am elected.
Patience and kindness with Gray Eagle and Red Bird, with advice from the boss on how to fit the shoes, pays off. They are both shod without too much trouble, and I am proud of my first lesson in the art of shoeing a horse. After I talk Mr. Aikens into staying over one more day, we shoe the remaining eight fast. I had to take a great deal of time with my first two pets, the big gray and the bay, as I didn’t want to scare or hurt either of them. As for the others, I laid each one down and tied him solid so no one could be hurt, then shod them real quick, which was better and safer, but shoeing horses is not for a cowboy — it belongs to a blacksmith. These were my first and only. Never again!