Sunday's Colt & Other Stories (10 page)

I was also green. Other than our semi-annual trips to Larned to buy and sell stock, and irregular visits to St. John and Seward, I had little contact with the outside world. We sold grain at the Walnut Hill Mill, twenty miles north on the Arkansas River, and on special occasions we visited Great Bend. But for the most part, I worked horses and mules, did chores, and helped my grandparents. I worked hard, and to the best of my knowledge never lacked for anything. My prized possessions were my tall-crowned Stetson hat that my uncle Glenn gave me when I finished school, a Heiser Rocky Mountain Roper saddle that had been my father's, and an octagon-barreled .22 Winchester pump-action rifle. The little rifle was an eye catcher—nickel plated with extremely dark walnut woodwork. Grandpa bought it from a fellow in Seward who claimed he needed some seed money. Grandpa felt that it was more likely beer money, but the rifle was a bargain and I needed one to replace a worn out old single shot Stevens. I was never more than a few feet from the Winchester. As can probably be guessed, I seldom missed anything that I shot at.

Grandpa had two sections of grassland and a quarter section and eighty of farmland. We raised a little wheat, red cane, dry land corn, and alfalfa for the livestock. Grandpa built his cowherd up to a hundred head of Herefords and a few Jersey milking cows, which was a lot for those times in that area. He also raised mules and horses. He had twenty brood mares and a mammoth jack burro called Simplex that he bred to the mares. He also purchased unbroken colts for training. Sometimes we would have fifty head that needed to be broke. We also kept hogs, chickens, geese, turkeys, and ducks for home use. We always had at least one good border collie to help handle stock. Grandpa always named the dog Laddie. After a few years we got so we referred to dogs that had passed on as Laddie One, Laddie Four, or whatever number was appropriate. When Lightning came along, we were on Laddie Five. Laddie had always been a good name and Grandpa was superstitious about changing the name for fear he would get a chicken killer or egg sucker if he did.

Our day work was usually fairly regimented depending upon the season. We rose at sunrise and immediately fed the stock and milked the cows. A couple of hours later we ate breakfast and decided on the day's work. By eight or so we were in the fields or working livestock. By eleven we brought in the teams, fed, and watered them. We ate at noon, usually freshly killed fried chicken, boiled potatoes, and chicken gravy. We would usually rest for an hour after dinner—unless we were putting up hay or threshing wheat—before returning to the fields. By six o'clock, we would change teams or begin evening chores and milking. Depending upon the season and work to be done, we might eat our supper after chores and return to the fields, or call it a day. Grandpa always tried to keep a couple of men on during the farming season of spring, summer, and fall. They did most of the fieldwork while Grandpa handled the stock. During threshing season or hay harvest, we might have crews of twelve men, usually neighbors who shared work. I always enjoyed those times when we had big crews. We ate like kings, each woman at each homestead seemingly trying to outdo the others in preparing harvest meals. There was always lots of practical joking and good-natured conversation during those times. The days were long and the work hard, but the communal aspects made it fun.

Grandpa had a nice place but it wasn't anything special. We had an enormous barn that was the center of activity during the day. It was a gable-roofed affair with a loft and stalls on both sides of a center alleyway. “O. C. Tate Horses and Mules” was painted in black on the second story loft drop door. A hay grapple hung from the peak above the door. Hay was lifted from wagons to the loft and dumped with a pulley system that depended on a team of mules on the opposite end of the barn. When I was small, the grapple team was my responsibility. Later, I usually worked in the barn spreading and stacking the loose hay with a pitchfork. The barn was surrounded on three sides by rough plank corrals. To the south was the breaking corral where most of the horse work took place.

Between the working corral and the house was the wagon and tack shed—a ramshackle clapboard barn with large rolling doors. There was also a chicken house and a brooder house west of the tack shed. On the hill were Grandma's house and the washhouse with a windmill for pumping water. There was also a taller windmill in the stock corrals. Hog pens and the outhouses were west of the house at the base of the hill. They seemed to go with each other.

Because of a shortage of lumber on the prairie in the 1870s, the house was begun with a simple ten-by-twelve single room mail order package from Sears, Roebuck & Company. Most of our store-bought clothing came from orders made from the Sears, Roebuck catalog. Later, another room of similar size was added, and still later a twenty-by-twenty square foot addition was added to the east. Grandma had finally got her screened porch at the north end of the original building that functioned as a kitchen after the turn of the century. Behind the house to the south was the cement root cellar that was poured over the original dugout—a flower garden and vegetable patch. Grandma always worked in the gardens in the early morning when it was cool. There was also a small windmill beside the root cellar that kept a constant supply of cool water circulating through the concrete cooling and storage tanks, and supplied irrigation water for the gardens. Fresh milk and eggs were stored in the cooling tanks, as well as canned goods arranged on wooden shelves along three walls. Circling the house on all sides were young cottonwood trees that had been planted in the 1890s. Four American elms also grew near the house at all four points of the compass. A small orchard of pear, cherry, and green apple trees was south of the gardens. There was also a clump of cottonwoods east of the barn where most of the repair work to wagons and machinery was done in the shade.

During the day, the place resounded with the frantic sounds of braying mules, cackling chickens and geese, gobbling turkeys, cattle calls, pig squeals, windmill pumping, hammering and repairing, and men working livestock. In the evening it was quiet, usually only disturbed by the ever-present mechanical clattering of the windmills, house activities, and the nearly constant wind singing through the cottonwoods. Sitting on the porch in the cool of the evening was my favorite time of day during the summer. After a long day's work it was pleasant to just relax on the porch with a glass of lemonade or tea made from fresh well water. Grandpa would usually smoke a pipe of tobacco and rock in his rocking chair as he waited for Grandma to finish supper dishes. I loved the sweet, heavy, and overpowering odor of his pipe smoke. Finally, Grandma would join him in her rocker. After thirty minutes or so, I would get my cue to head for bed. They would remain on the porch for an hour longer.

I often wondered what they talked about during that private time on those late summer evenings. Was it about crops, livestock, plans for the future, or memories of the past? Sometimes I would lie in bed and try to hear the conversation, but the sounds were always too far away to make sense. Every once in a while I would remember something that I felt I needed to bring to their attention before I fell asleep. I would get up and make my way to the porch in the dark to pass on the information. Invariably, they would be holding hands when I stepped through the door.

Lightning matured to become a fine strong cow pony under the protection of his foster mother. As the colt developed, we could expect periodic visits from Bill Sunday. Bill would usually ride in unannounced, spend a few minutes talking with Grandpa about livestock or farming, then casually ask about the colt. This request would always result in a walk to the corrals or horse pasture so Bill could get a look at the colt. Bill would nod his head, comment on the colt's progress, and then make some statement concerning Lightning's ancestry. Bill usually observed that there would not be another horse with the same breeding. Bill planned to breed several good mares to a mustang stud with the idea of eventually selling good cow ponies. He bought a dune mustang from a Comanche Indian in Oklahoma because he had been impressed with the animal's strength, endurance, and temperament. Lightning's mother had been the highest priced mare Bill had ever purchased. He chose her because of her thoroughbred bloodline and looks. The old stud died shortly after he serviced the mare and before any of Bill's other mares were ready. The lightning strike on the mare ended the plan completely. Only the little buckskin remained to give Bill any indication of whether his plan had been sound.

Bill had a good eye for horses, and his predictions of how the grown colt would look were correct. Lightning grew to become a short thickset horse barely fourteen hands tall. He had long silky hair growing from behind his fetlocks and the heavy unruly mane typical of his mustang father. His ears were narrow and short; his nostrils narrow. These were all traits of the Spanish ancestry characteristic of mustangs.

From his mother he inherited a finely chiseled head, large handsome eyes, and thickset heart girth. He was a full two hands shorter than his foster mother and his neck at least two inches thicker. Bill felt that with his short thick stature, quick speed, and strength, the pony ought to be perfect for roping and cutting work.

Grandpa wasn't as impressed. He was of the school preferring tall horses. He complained that Lightning was more the size of a mule rather than a “real” horse. He reluctantly conceded that the little buckskin was awfully “showy” and certainly as quick-footed as any animal he had seen. The two old cowboys would often spend a few minutes debating the qualities of the colt before returning to the house for a glass of tea or fresh well water.

Everyone paid special attention to the colt. Even Grandma, who usually paid little attention to such matters, would occasionally take a walk in the pasture to check on the colt. I usually spent a quarter hour or so fooling with the colt every morning. Laddie always accompanied me. I tried to have a bit of apple, a handful of grain, or a little sugar robbed from Grandma's pantry for Lightning.

The colt would usually come running to me, his mother calmly watching warily from a distance. Playful and skittish, Lightning would usually run toward me at a full gallop, then throw on the brakes at the last instant. He would eagerly accept my treats but always with a close eye on my hands and the dog, sweeping away suddenly if he felt I was getting just a bit too close. He would jump and pitch as he turned away, often with an excited squeal that always brought his foster mother to attention. He never went very far though; always eager to be as independent as possible, but never so far that he might forfeit some goody that I might still have to offer. He would stand apart from me facing away, showing his rump, but always watching my actions. Eventually after demonstrating the proper degree of independence, he would casually turn about and return to my offerings. There would always be time for the morning nose touch of greeting with the collie—a cautious but friendly recognition of each other's presence.

Then as quick as a flash, he was off to the mare. Laddie was usually eager to give chase, but a word from me held him back. Although Sally was never very happy with the presence of the dog, Laddie and the colt could often be found renewing acquaintances in the horse pasture. There was something about the colt's antics that fascinated the collie. Both seemed enthralled with the other's strange appearance. They became comfortable companions. In the heat of the afternoon, Laddie could often be found resting in the shade of an old elm tree in the pasture, the colt usually nearby or resting beside him. Generally, Sally tolerated their unusual friendship with mild disapproval.

Grandpa and Bill made the decision early to geld the colt. Both felt that he would be of more value as a gelding rather than as a stud. Breeders would have little interest in Lightning's unique bloodline. Bill did not feel that the colt would be able to carry out his plan for a new type of horse. When Lightning turned two, it became time for him to get his education. His halter-breaking session with Nan was uneventful, but his first experience with the saddle was not smooth. In spite of the fact that he had spent a full day and night snubbed closely to the center post of the breaking corral before the attempt was made, the feisty colt did not take well to presence of the heavy breaking saddle. He puffed up and attempted to kick free of the halter and the saddle. He went to his knees in a vain attempt to roll the foreign object from his back. Grandpa had tied the halter rope too closely to the post for him to make a roll. The colt groaned in anger and sullenly refused to move or get back to his feet. Grandpa patiently suggested that we give him a few hours to come to terms with his bondage before attempting a ride.

By that evening, the colt had been twenty-four hours without water or feed. When we returned he was standing at the center post, resigned to the saddle on his back. I untied him and led him to the stock tank. He followed calmly and drank his fill. He also eagerly accepted a green apple that I had procured from Grandma's orchard.

The following morning I saddled up Old Ben—one of Grandpa's better riding horses—and led the saddled colt on a brisk five-mile workout. When we returned, the colt was sweaty and tired. Grandpa always preached that a colt learned best when he was exhausted and the fight gone. Before the colt had time to regain his strength, we slipped on a hackamore, tightened the cinch of the breaking saddle, and led him into the bucking pen. Grandpa slipped an old saddle blanket over the colt's eyes as I swung into the bear-trap bucking saddle. Grandpa used the unusual Flynn saddle for all preliminary breaking work. This saddle had a very wide swell that swept backward from the horn so a rider was literally in a trap between the high-back cantle and the backward fork. It was excellent for staying in the saddle, but almost impossible to get out of should the horse fall with the rider. Bill Sunday considered it a dangerous device and often commented that Grandpa should retire it to the barn. The saddle had been instrumental in my breaking my leg when a sorrel mare threw herself with me the preceding year. I still liked the Flynn for breaking because once I was set in the seat it was nearly impossible for a horse to throw me. After the experience with the sorrel, however, I was much more wary of a horse throwing himself.