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I began life with an awful tragedy. Mother left us shortly before my fourth birthday. Where she had gone or for how long, no one told me and I didn’t know. There was a house full of people, some patting me on the head saying “What a big man.” But I wasn’t. This was in 1896. I was only a little boy.
There were strange women trying to hold me on their laps with no success. I was conscious of something wrong. Just what, I was too young to understand.
The fact that Mother had died of quick consumption came to me in the days that followed, sort of piecemeal. Someone seeing me for the first time would remark, “Why, he looks just like his mother.” Then I remember hearing Father say, “When a boy loses his mother he has lost everything, because it is the mother that keeps a family together and makes a home.” It finally dawned on me that Mama was gone forever. While this was terrible for me, it must have been doubly hard for Father. Mother’s death left only four of us, Father, my sister Minnie, Brother Bud and myself. Minnie, who was thirteen years older than I, was sent east to live with an aunt, leaving the three of us together.
Thank God for Father. He turned down all the aunts and uncles who were bent on taking me to raise, saying we would fight it out together, and when they insisted that I needed a woman to look after me, I was so young, Father replied, “I will take care of that.” And he did. Coming to live with us and take care of everyone was Sally, a colored lady. To me, she was an angel. She looked after me, baked cookies, cakes, fresh bread, and right or wrong was always on my side. This Father pretended was wrong, but he liked it very much, because he was keeping the three of us together and could give the back of his hand to all the doubting aunts and uncles.
Two events awakened me to life after the death of Mother. On my sixth birthday when I started to school, Father gave me a pony, saddle, bridle and the whole works. My riding before had always been on the back of one of Bud’s horses, with him leading and me hanging on. This pony was my first of my very own, and with this little monster, named Slowpoke, I started my career with horses.
Slowpoke and I were about the same age, but there the similarity ended. For this little guy had forgotten more about boys than I would ever know. There were times when he humored me by doing everything perfect. He would let me ride him everywhere like we were real pals. Then all of a sudden he would decide the ground was the best place for me. With a few well placed jumps, there I would be, walking home, with him just ahead dragging the reins — so far and yet so near. Boy, I could kill him.
Our home was on the edge of a small cowtown in Colorado, named Sterling, near the Platte River in the Platte Valley. Here no one could be a stranger for long. Everyone spoke to each other whether they had met before or not. Here I learned that cowmen are the kindest and friendliest people on earth.
On both sides of the river for miles and miles in every direction cattle and horses grazed without interference, except immediately along the river where there were many farms raising hay and grain. It was a real cow country for real cowmen. A place to be happy about.
Father and Brother had cattle and horses. At the home ranch some thirty miles from town there was a large pasture for horses, while the cattle roamed the range. Here I liked to spend my vacation, or any time I could, watching Brother Bud break horses to ride. I looked forward to the time I could do the things he was doing, only I was growing too slowly and time was passing slower. Every time I returned to our house in town after watching Bud front-foot some horses, I would try this on my pony, Slowpoke. He was a total loss. He would run about twice then stand still with his little rump facing me. To rope him was impossible.
We had our final battle just before I was eight years old. He stepped on my foot and walked over me, knocking me flat. To say that I was wild would be putting it mildly. Looking for something to work him over with, I found my ball bat in the back yard. With the small bat in one hand, limping and crying tears of anger, I chased him around the corral, trying to get close enough to conk him back of the ear, calling him a ——— so and so, when my brother showed on the scene. “My God, Pard. Such language! Your Sunday school teacher wouldn’t like that. And what do you think would happen if Father could hear that kind of talk? What did you do to Slowpoke or what were you trying to do?” I explained I was only trying to play elephant like they do in the circus — you know, where the elephant throws the man up on his back with his trunk. “I was only trying to teach him to throw me up with his head, but he is so dumb he walked all over me and stepped on my foot.”
“Pard, by now you know an elephant he is not, even if he does act like one at times. I am going to give you two Indian ponies I just bought, and you’ll need a new saddle as you’ve outgrown Slowpoke and your saddle. I think we should give Slowpoke and your saddle to our banker’s little girl. You need something with more life if you are to learn to be a rider. These new ponies are fast and tough and will stand no foolishness. If you learn to ride them, you’ll be plenty good. By the time you’re ten, I may have a real cowboy for a brother.”
With these two characters, a sorrel named Kid and a dark bay named Shoefly, life really became interesting. Where Slowpoke was short and squatty, these beautiful babies were slim and sleek and moved with the ease of a cat on a hot stove. Along with my two close pals, the King brothers, Willard and Earl, I roamed the prairies near our house, where we roped wild burros and were always busy. We were in the same class at school and wore the same kind of clothes — cowboy boots and long pants. The others, sissies, wore knee pants and shoes. The King boys’ daddy was in the cattle business. As we were all going to be cowpunchers, we were always together. Where there was trouble, we would go down together.
One day our grocery boy was making a delivery. He drove a horse and wagon which had a canvas top to keep the groceries dry. All Father or Bud had to do was leave orders at the store and they would be delivered, a convenience that left Sally no worries. The horse was a nice gentle plug that was used to the route. He would simply pull up in front of the house and then stand still like he was dead, while the man ran around back with the groceries.
This day the three of us were just getting home from school. Coming to the front where the half asleep horse was standing, Earl said, “Let’s have some fun. I’m going to wake Old Dobbin up.” With that, he extracted a small vial from his pocket and quickly dashed a few drops on the plug’s hind end. What was in the vial, I didn’t know. It looked like water, but water it was not, for the old boy threw up his head, surprised like, then began to wiggle his behind like he had the itch, then gave one hell of a jump and hit for the prairie, with the wagon bouncing every which way, and groceries going in every direction. About this time the most excited man in our town came around the corner of our house to see his grocery wagon upset and his horse traveling like a wild bull in fly time. Me, I was as surprised as the groceryman, as this was my first experience with Hoky Pokie. The liquid, applied properly, will bring the deadest creature that has hair to life with a bang for a short time, but has no lasting effect on the animal, only makes him wonder what in the world happened.
Had I known what it was all about, I would have had Earl sprinkle some on the guy’s tail so he could catch his horse, but I was dumb and just stood there while the King boys, all of a sudden, had to go home.
Had Sally not come to my rescue, the guy probably would have scalped me — he was mad enough. But he accepted Sally’s explanation that his old horse was stung by a bee, and I made my escape to the back of the house.
The next day Earl’s father paid the store for its loss in groceries and repair of the wagon. But the horse was never the same. At our house, he would never stand and wait but always had to be tied, even for a minute. Earl and Willard were a couple of swell guys. They could have left me holding the sack, but they told their mother, who could handle their father, and that made everything dandy.
Alone or with this pair, there was never a dull moment. We were all trying to grow up too fast and do the things that men did, like the day I climbed on a chair and helped myself to a fair portion of Father’s tonic, which was in a decanter high on the cupboard. It had a horrible smell, but Father seemed to enjoy it so much before supper, I knew I needed some. I only poured about half the amount Father usually poured into a water glass. If I didn’t like it, there wouldn’t be much loss. Settling down in his big chair, I took a gulp and swallowed real quick. Then the smell, the burn, the choke. I could hardly breathe when Sally came in. “Boy, what did you do?” She didn’t need to ask. The smell was enough. With my “Oh Sally, I think I am going to be sick,” she promptly gave me her apron. I didn’t quite die, but almost. It was many a year before I could stand the smell of whiskey.
Once my Uncle Sam came to visit us for a few weeks. He was my mother’s brother and my favorite uncle. In fact, my favorite over everyone except Father and Brother Bud. He always enjoyed life so much. After each meal, he would take a plug of chewing tobacco out of his pocket and bite off a big chew. This didn’t smell bad like whiskey but was pretty and brown like the crust of Sally’s pies. Boy, did I want to try this! Whether by accident or on purpose, Uncle Sam left the plug on the dining room table. This was all that was needed. Grabbing myself a large mouthful, chewing fast and furious, I got a mouthful of juice, which I swallowed. Down went the chew with the next swallow and up came everything I had ever eaten, plus my stomach. I broke out in a terrible sweat and was so dizzy I couldn’t walk. If chewing tobacco makes a man, I knew that I would never make it. And chew tobacco I never have.