5
Many miles across the sand hills that parallel the Platte River is our home ranch. At the edge of these hills, where the hard soil formation starts, our ranch begins. Most everything is government land. On some of this land homesteaders are trying to make a living and provide homes for their families by farming, depending on rain which always comes at the wrong time. The soil is good for grazing land but not for farming, and the average stay of a homesteader is about two years. Then the poor devil is starved out, and the government has won again.
The buildings of our ranch, which occupies three hundred and twenty acres of deeded land, consist of a five-room house, a barn and corrals, large water tanks and two windmills. The pastures and grazing land are all leased from the government. Here, when not in school, I spent most of my young life. During my vacations I roamed at will, doing all the things I liked best and learning from my big brother all a fellow should know about horses and cattle. The horses I liked best. They were so beautiful and graceful. I could watch a corral of wild horses for hours, and when Brother Bud was breaking a wild one to ride, I was in seventh heaven, watching and learning every move my brother made, so that when I was big enough I could do the things Bud did in the same way.
Our ranch was perfect for handling wild horses. The house and barns were fenced off from everything with a four-wire fence. From this fence we had two small horse pastures for our gentle horses and those we were breaking. In the other directions, reaching far back into the rolling hills, was our large horse pasture of some two hundred and fifty thousand acres. Our wire corral, which surrounded our big board corrals, was a twelve-wire-high fence which would hold several hundred horses, with wide gates entering from all our pastures. Our two wooden corrals were round in shape with no corners and were made of broad, flat two-by-twelve boards with bolts sunk from the inside into large railroad ties, which were set close together.
The three heavy wooden gates working on swivels were easy to open and close, owing to the way they were balanced. Here the two windmills ran continuously, pumping water into our above-ground storage tanks. These supplied large sunken tanks, which were always full and available to all our pastures. There was plenty of rock salt on tap a short distance from them. Our horses and cattle never had it so good.
Our two windmills were located about a half a mile apart. From these our big pasture fence extended out for miles, except the one extending from the corral where our number one well was. This fence paralleled the other fence for about a mile, then turned abruptly for miles until it eventually tied in with the first to enclose all the leased land. With the two wire fences, half a mile apart and paralleling each other, we had a bottleneck to our main wire corral about one mile long, so that the wild ones hitting this narrow entrance would have no place to go except through the big open gate to the corral. Without this arrangement we never could have controlled the wild ones. It was in this pasture that the wild horses grew fat, having never seen salt, grass or water such as they enjoyed here.
Early in the spring, Brother Bud would buy horses from the Indians in Nevada or anyone who had been successful in trapping a few. Sometimes there were many groups to buy from, as the horses were owned by no one. These horses were the offspring of some who had escaped from the travelers in the early days of the covered wagon, at least that is one theory. But from whence they came makes no difference. They were the most alert and interesting horses in the world. The domestic or hand-raised horses were always slower to learn and never had the stamina of the original wild horse. Buying several hundred or all he could of these horses at five dollars apiece, Bud always got the colts free as well as many of the mares. They would arrive at our home stockyard in the Platte Valley poor, hungry and thirsty. With plenty of water and hay in the stockyard they would begin to pick up immediately. While they were thin and the hair was rough, they were still beautiful. Some were black with white markings, others were buckskin, palomino, sorrels, blacks with white face and legs, bays, browns, solid blacks, blues with curly hair, grays and always some big beautiful stallions.
Many of the wild ones had manes and tails full of cockleburs, matted solid. All of these we would front-foot and lay down, then clean their manes and tails, which would make them look good and certainly feel good. On each one we had to put a small brand on their left jaw, just enough to distinguish them in the event they should get away or escape from the pasture. After they were worked over at the stockyard to our satisfaction, there was the job of getting them to our ranch, which with several good cowboys on fast horses was usually accomplished without too much trouble. In our home corral, we would take our time letting them get used to their new environment, including the salt and water. Looking the bunch over carefully, we would pick at least thirty or fifty to be turned into the pasture with our gentle horses. These we would break at our leisure for cow ponies.
At fourteen, I was allowed to help with the breaking of the wild ones. At fifteen I broke my first horse without any help or advice, just Brother Bud high on the fence watching but not interfering. My first colt, Pal, was a young palomino that was quick as lightning and walked as though he was stepping on eggs. He was a little beauty, and we took to each other like real pals, so my brother gave him to me, and until the day I left Colorado no one else was ever on his back. When I left, I returned him to my brother, where I knew he would always be a pet. In this environment and under my brother’s watchful eye, I was in heaven, alone in a corral with a real wild horse to tame. And there were some that were much more difficult than others. One of these was a little sorrel with a white face, a beautiful silver mane and tail, one glass eye and four white legs reaching up to his knees. This one we called Headlight, possibly on account of the blaze face and glass eye. He was not a large horse, but what he lacked in size, he made up in alertness and speed. I had been working him alone, and each time I rode the little monster, I had all I could do to stay on top until he quit bucking. The fifth time I rode Headlight, my brother was out to our ranch and I told him about this little sorrel and what a bucking horse he was. Big Brother wants to see how good he is, so saddling and stepping on, we leave the corral and start out for the big pasture when our little sorrel seems to fall apart. In three jumps, he has me all loose in the saddle. Then he quickly finishes the job, dumping me on my head with a pair of pants split down one leg. Damn, I am sure mad. I have been careful with him and he hasn’t responded to good treatment, so I am going to work the baby over good. But Bud stops me, saying, “Son, this is a real bucking horse, so don’t do anything to change him. If he wants to buck, we’ll sell him to Buffalo Bill’s show which will be in town next week, and at a fancy price. Next week, Pard, you bring Headlight and that big gray I shipped in from Nevada on my last trip, and I’ll sell them both to the show. Just don’t ride either of them again. Let Buffalo Bill’s cowboys try their luck.”
Two days before the show is to open, I am in town with my two bucking horses. Bud has made a deal with the show’s advance agent for a flock of passes, and if their number one cowboy likes our horses, the sale is made at a fancy price. On the day of the big show, I turn our ponies over to the head man, who agrees to ride them that afternoon. This I am going to see. With the big tent, the band and all the noise, I don’t know what the little sorrel would do. He might stampede and kill someone, but the big gray I knew would give any cowboy who climbed aboard a ride for his life.
This horse Bud bought because he was a bucking horse. He was not an original wild horse but a farm horse who resented anyone on his back. He was gentle to saddle and would stand perfectly still until the rider was seated, then the fireworks started. This I know because, unknown to my brother, I had tried him out. He damned near jerked my back in two. He could go higher and faster and hit the ground harder than any horse I had ever been on. Truly, he was a natural bucking horse. Nothing was needed to make him buck, such as surcingles or spurs. All a fellow had to do was try and stay put.
Mr. Cody, or Buffalo Bill, had done his act with the guns and it was time to ride our broncos. So the cowboys are out in the arena in all their glory, doing some trick roping, when they announce that one of their punchers is going to ride the big gray. This is what I have been waiting for. He stands still, doesn’t seem to be worried about the tent and all the people. He acts just like the farm horse he is, until the guy is seated. Here all resemblance to a nice gentle farm horse is gone. His head goes down, he seems to go straight up in the air and makes a turn, and when he hits the ground the rider is loose in the saddle. One more twist and the puncher is on the ground. The crowd is wild. So what do the show people do? They tell the audience that they will ride the big gray at the night show, along with the bucking horse Headlight, and to be sure to see the show! After this, I find Bud, who has collected his money in cash.
Now Buffalo Bill has two of our horses, one of which dumped his rider at the afternoon show. Though they announced they would ride both at the night show, they don’t try even one. Someone has gotten cold feet, and I don’t blame them much. All the cowpunch-ers in our country are razzing Buffalo Bill’s boys, so they evidently decided not to risk riding them here.
I only know that Headlight killed the fellow who tried to ride him on their third stop out of our town. He went wild and bucked into a couple of big tent poles. I was sorry we ever sold him. He could have been made into a good pony if we had kept him. All he needed was a real good working over. Bud says all for the best, but for once, I don’t agree with my big brother.
On a real hot morning, about eleven o’clock, I come into the house to get myself an early lunch. I have been out in our corral breaking a colt to lead, when there are five short rings on our barb-wire telephone. Our phone is a telephone of sorts, having a party line of nine ranchers within a radius of one hundred miles. It runs on the barbed wire fence, where there is a fence. Where there isn’t, it runs on a single wire attached to some small poles stuck in the ground. Each rancher is supposed to take care of his own line. As we are at the end of the line, we don’t have too much of a problem. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. When it does, if a fellow wished, he could carry on a conversation with nine people. There was no privacy. This day, with the five short rings, it turned out to be Bill, an old friend of ours who lived alone about twenty miles from our ranch. He had a lot of cattle and supposedly a pile of money. But he was one hell of a drinker. He didn’t just buy a bottle. When he was drinking, it was by the barrel — a big barrel, that is, with a tin cup attached. This only happened about once a year, but when it did, he was a person to stay away from, for at least thirty days. Today he sounded fine. His voice was good with his greeting: “Kid, would you come over and help me this afternoon? I have some young horses to brand . . . and will you do the front-footing and give me a hand?” It has always been customary for all ranchers to help one another. While I had other plans, he is a good friend of my brother’s, so I promise to be over as soon as I can catch a bite to eat. Having a half broken horse in the corral, I decide to ride him. The trip will do him good as long as there is no roping with a horse. Anyway, my trip to town is spoiled, so the quicker the better and I am on my way.
To reach Bill’s ranch house and corrals, one has to go through three wire gates all within half a mile of the house. With a half broken horse, this takes a little longer than usual. Reaching the first gate and giving a look, I don’t see anyone near the stable or the house when I tie my horse to a wagon near the barn. There is still no life, and in the corrals there are no horses. I have about decided someone has been having some fun at my expense, which I am not enjoying in the least. Now I have a feeling that I am being watched and should get on my horse and travel for home. What the devil is going on I am going to find out, so I head for the house. Here is a sight for the Gods. Twenty miles I have to come to find Old Bill seated at the table with no food, but a big tumbler of straight whiskey out of a ten-gallon barrel perched on another table in a far corner. For sure, I’m in trouble now. He tries to have me get drunk with him. If the old guy was human, I might have had a few drinks, but his reputation I know well. When drinking he is always mean and loves to shoot people up and make them dance. He always carries a gun and is a dead shot. That is why he never killed anyone that we knew about. He just scared them to death.
There is nothing more unpleasant than a drunken old man, and one who loves to play with a gun is worse. I know it is just a question of time until this old buzzard makes a play for my feet, and out here a hundred miles from nowhere I don’t feel like dancing. So, I talk to him about my brother, hoping this will bring some sense to the old boy’s dome, because he has a handsome respect for Bud and may spare Bud’s little brother. Staggering to his feet to get a refill from his barrel, the old boy starts to paw me and tell me what a great man I am, all of which I agree with as I lift his gat from the holster. While the old man is getting his refill and talking to himself, I head for my horse tied to the wagon. Here I leave his gun in the bottom of his wagon bed.
It is looking like a clear getaway with no trouble, when I see Old Bill coming out of the door, staggering, cursing and trying to run toward where I am mounting my horse to head for safety. The old boy gets halfway and falls down. By the time I am on my way for the first gate, I see Old Bill moving to the house as fast as his condition will permit. I am dismounting to open the second gate when the gentleman appears at the door with his rifle. The first shot hits about forty feet in front of the bronc. Without closing the wire gate, just giving it a toss, I am mounted and have one more to go when the next shot hits just back of me. The bronc has almost left this world. The old man is in his glory, having a wonderful time. He isn’t shooting at us. Had he been, we would never have gotten past the first gate. He is just having himself a hell of a time. My horse is scared to death, and I am not feeling so good. I’m mad enough to murder the old boy. The only thing I am afraid of, in his drunken condition he might kill us accidentally by the gun slipping or any number of things.
At the third gate, I toss it open out of the way, then I have trouble getting on my horse. He’s half broken and scared, is trembling like a leaf and wants to run, so I let him run while I do like we do in relay races, grab the mane of your horse and the horn of your saddle and with a running momentum toss yourself in the saddle without using the stirrup. This is fine with a broken and trained horse, but on a baby like I am riding, I expect him to start bucking immediately This doesn’t happen. My bronc is so damned scared that all he wants to do is run, and as for me, brother, he can’t run too fast. Old Bill winds up his shooting exhibition by putting one shot down back of us as we disappear around a hill. The gentleman has had a good day.
Why he has never been killed on account of his private sport, I don’t know. I remember one of his former stunts. He was going home to his ranch, having been on a large celebration in town, when he fell off his gentle old horse. About this time a car full of men and girls came along the clay road running through the sand hill. This clay road is narrow. If a car goes out too far on either side, said car is there for keeps. Of this the driver was aware, so with Old Bill standing in the middle of the road holding his horse by the reins, the driver had to stop. This was made to order. Out comes Old Bill’s gat, and they all did a dance in the sand hill on a muddy clay road with the old boy as their only audience. Gals who had never seen a cancan learned their art under a tough teacher. When the old fellow was so tired he wanted to go home, he made a couple of the men help him on his horse, and the show was over. Nothing ever happened. The law waited until they were quite certain Bill was sober, then they arrested him, but no one appeared against him. Everything was forgotten. Quite a character in any man’s country. And me, dumb sap, knowing all about this chap and his love of fun, I fall into his trap for target practice.
What to do? Nothing, just tell Brother Bud, who waits until there has been time to empty the barrel. Then he and our boy Bill have a talk. Bill was sorry, so what? There it ended. Who wants to kill an old man, especially a friend? So everything is just ducky, except I didn’t enjoy the party, not even a drink. Our friend Bill I shall leave very much alone. Bud can have the old boy for his very own.