Sunday's Colt & Other Stories (11 page)

Lightning humped up and threatened to pitch but he was too confused and tired to go through with it. While his crude blindfold was still in place, Grandpa led him around the pen several times until he became familiar with the weight on his back. After I gathered up the reins of the hackamore so the colt could not get his head down to buck, Grandpa gently slipped the blanket from his eyes.

“Now, keep his head up and watch your legs,” Grandpa quietly suggested as he slipped the blanket free. “I wouldn't be surprised if he chose to throw himself.”

I nodded and braced my thighs into the exaggerated swells of the bear-trap saddle. I wasn't eager to spend another winter on crutches and was ready to bail off if I suspected the colt would throw himself.

As Grandpa backed cautiously away, Lightning froze and trembled with uncertainty.

“Make him go,” Grandpa said softly.

I relaxed a bit against the saddle to see if that would set the colt off. I waited a few seconds, then gently prodded his flanks with the heels of my boots. I never wore spurs when breaking a horse. The colt humped up again in confusion but did not move.

“He's going to be stubborn,” Grandpa said as he took hold of the hackamore under the colt's chin.

Grandpa gently increased the forward force and tried to lead the colt as I gently prodded Lightning in the flanks. Lightning took a faltering step forward, then another, and another. Grandpa let go of the hackamore and allowed him to pass by. The colt kept on walking in a circle around the center post of the pen, staying a safe distance from the surrounding corral fence.

We made one circle around the post before Grandpa ordered, “Make him trot.”

I nodded and braced myself against the fork of the saddle, squaring my rump into the high-backed cantle of the bear-trap saddle. At this point of a first ride, there was never a certainty of how a colt would react to the heel pressure on his flanks. Some went into a trot, some would balk, but a few would blow up underneath the rider.

Lightning puffed up and gave serious consideration to throwing a fit as I increased the pressure of my heels. After a bit of coaxing, he changed his mind and broke into his faster gait. Following a couple more circles around the pen at the trot, Grandpa nodded his head approvingly and ordered a halt.

I drew back the reins slowly until the colt came to a stop. He seemed to be resigned to my presence and showed little inclination to fight my commands.

“What do you think?” Grandpa asked as he stepped to the colt and took hold of the hackamore.

“He's ready,” I answered. “Turn him out.”

“Why don't you ride him over to Bill's,” Grandpa said as he softly stroked Lightning on the neck with his free hand. “He'd like to see the colt being ridden and it's about the right distance for a first ride.”

I nodded and patted Lightning's neck. Grandpa stepped away and opened the heavy swinging gate of the breaking corral. As I rode the colt across the farmyard I caught sight of Grandma standing next to the yard fence.

“Looks like he decided to be a gentleman,” Grandma called.

“I think so.”

“Watch him. He's quick coupled enough to throw you before you know what's happening,” Grandpa said.

I nodded and waved to both of them as we made our way down the lane. Lightning seemed glad to be free of the pen, even if he was packing his unfamiliar load. We went down the lane easily and made the turn onto the road.

On the way to Bill's, I alternated the colt's gaits from walk to trot to gallop. He pitched the first time we broke into gallop but it was a half-hearted effort.

Lightning carried himself nicely. He was a smooth gaited two-year-old with a short neck. I could easily see why he would work well as a roping and cow pony. A high-headed horse was something of a bother when trying to manage a roping loop, and Lightning kept his head low and set forward.

By the time we reached Bill Sunday's place, he was pretty tired. Grandpa firmly believed that a horse didn't really begin learning anything until it was too tired to fight. He also believed that any colt that wasn't allowed to buck during his early training was unlikely to buck after being finished. The tactic didn't always work, but in Lightning's case it proved correct. After that first day, he never bucked no matter how difficult his circumstances.

Sunday was waiting in the yard for my visit. He smiled as I approached his two-room cabin. “Looks like you've worked him out nicely.”

I leaned forward over the saddle horn and stroked Lightning's neck. “He's done real well.”

“Step down, Andy. Let's give him a breather before you start back.”

I eased to the ground and led him to Bill's watering tank. Bill and I led him to the shade of a large cottonwood that grew next to the cabin.

Being a Texan, Bill was of the habit of squatting over his knees rather than sitting on the ground. He squatted and began rolling himself a cigarette from the makings he carried in his shirt pocket.

“What do you think of him?” he asked matter-of-factly as I sat on the ground next to him.

“I think he'll be all right.”

Sunday struck a match against the handle of his old Colt and lit his cigarette. “Your grandpa and I are sorta partners on this feller. We talked it over the other day and decided that if you liked him, the horse ought to be yours.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. I'd hate to see him sold and we both think you need a horse of your own.”

“Thanks, Bill. I think that would be all right,”

“There is one condition,” Bill said after taking another puff on his cigarette.

“What's that?”

“I think that after you've broke him to the lariat and got him cattle wise, some feller's going to offer you quite a price for him. I'm asking that you don't sell him, no matter what you're offered. Hell, if you need to…to get yourself off the spot…tell that feller he's Bill Sunday's colt and you can't sell him.”

Of course I wouldn't sell the colt. It was funny that the old cowboy had thought up some tactic for me to keep from selling Lightning no matter how tempting the offer.

“I'll tell you what, Bill. As far as anyone's concerned he's Sunday's colt. We'll just be partners on him. How's that?”

Bill put out his hand to seal the deal. “That would be fine, partner. That would be just fine.”

During the course of the following year we turned Lightning into a solid roping horse. Although we didn't do as much roping as the large outfits farther west, it was important that we had horses that knew the work. Pink eye was a problem in the summer. Hoof rot was an ailment demanding immediate care. Cows in trouble during calving season in the spring had to be caught. A roping horse needed to be able to hold a calf while it was being doctored. Roping demanded speed, intelligence, and strength.

It wasn't the custom to dally rope. Dally roping was a practice developed by the Mexican vaqueros using forty-foot braided leather lariats and large rawhide-covered saddle horns. Once a vaquero roped an animal, he wrapped the end of his lariat around the saddle horn and either took up or let out slack as the situation demanded. This saved on the lariat and preserved the weak saddle frame. We tied our lariats hard and fast to smooth steel saddle horns. The saddles weren't designed for taking a quick wrap with our twenty-foot hemp lariats. Much of our roping was done in sandhills laced with plumb thickets and willows. There wasn't time to make a dally wrap after catching a calf. Our saddles were heavy with two cinches—one in front and another at the back—to keep them from tipping forward when the lariat went tight after a catch. The saddles featured high cantles, heavy swells at the fork, large square skirts, and wide fenders. The stirrups were often iron rather than wood. My Heiser weighed over forty pounds and was designed for heavy roping and dragging. Wrecks were not common but could happen if a calf veered off at an angle before the rope was tight, or managed to get a tree or bush between the horse and itself after a catch. For this reason we often had a strap with the lariat fed between it and the horse's neck to keep a newly trained pony's head in line with the calf after the catch. It didn't take long for a horse to learn to keep the lariat at an angle of the best advantage. Lightning excelled under the lariat. He was quick enough to get in close and stay with the calf. He was also solid enough to take the heavy pounding of the force of catching a calf—and he liked it. Some horses never do take well to being tied to a fighting calf; others seem to enjoy the power over another animal. Lightning was that kind of horse. Old timers called such horses “cow wise.”

A good rider, however, seldom threw his pony to a dead stop as is commonly seen in modern rodeo calf-roping events. It was much wiser to draw the pony to a slow stop, easing the stress on the saddle, horse, and calf's neck. “Busting” cattle wasn't tolerated. Grandpa said that cattle with broken or crooked necks didn't turn much of a profit.

We seldom roped full-sized cows unless we had one that wouldn't stay home. Roping bulls was usually out of the question unless there were several riders to get a loop on him. We had one old Hereford bull named Jiggs that gave us a show. Jiggs was a swept-horned giant weighing close to a ton. This old boy was wise to cowboys and lariats and always seemed to be interested in cows and heifers in other pastures. That first year working Lightning, we lost track of the bull about mid-summer. That fall, a farmer from Seward stopped by to ask us if we were missing a bull with a broken bar T brand. He had been spotted along the Mystery River in a thick stand of willows and cottonwoods. The locals had tried to catch Jiggs but had little luck, no one feeling competent to lay a loop on him. The Mystery River was an underflow creek that came to the surface during wet years. A person could follow its course because of surrounding timber stands drawing moisture from the underground water. The course was too boggy for farming and was ideal for young trees to take root. Farmers on foot were not able to drive the bull or catch him in the soft ground surrounding the Mystery's course.

Knowing we would probably have a tussle with the bull, Grandpa asked Bill Sunday and a couple of local cowboys to help us. Dan Scott and Jack Pearson were older than I was by a few years and fancied themselves quite the bronc busters. Five riders pulled out of our place on a cold October Saturday morning. Dan had a seven-foot bullwhip to drive the bull into the open where we could get a loop on him if it was necessary. The farmers complained that old Jiggs would fight every time anyone got near him. If a bull wouldn't submit to herding, a man on foot was at his mercy.

We hadn't ridden a mile before Dan and Jack were criticizing Lightning's size. The cowboys said the colt was too little for me…that I ought to be riding a “real” horse, and they hoped he wouldn't be played out before we got to Seward. Of course this good-natured teasing didn't sit well with Bill Sunday. He listened sullenly before offering a dollar bet that Lightning would still be going when the other horses were played out. Being self-styled vaqueros, the pair jumped at the bet. Grandpa said that he hoped we didn't kill a horse that day to settle a two-dollar bet.

After talking to the farmer, we began a sweep of the river to locate the bull. Grandpa spotted Jiggs first as he broke from a wheat field. He was making tracks for a three-acre wilderness of willows and vines. Dan and Jack dug in their spurs and fired their horses into the trees after him. By the time Grandpa, Bill, and I arrived, the cowboys were riding the edges looking for tracks. They could find no sign of the bull and figured he had hot-footed it down the river course.

Bill suggested a sweep through the trees to make sure the bull hadn't been missed. Dan complained that it was just a bit difficult to miss a ton bull in a three-acre patch of trees. Grandpa, however, overruled them saying that it was best to cover the ground as well as possible. Old Jiggs was a lot craftier than most and Grandpa didn't relish the idea of passing the bull if he could prevent it.

We made the sweep through the trees, keeping each other in sight. There seemed to be no sign of the bull in the tangled undergrowth. As we passed through, the cowboys suggested that Jiggs must have made his way down the river.

“Show me the tracks!” Bill said.

Grandpa ordered a second unsuccessful sweep of the trees with no success. A cold rain began under low-rolling clouds. We spread out, making our way down the river course looking for tracks or some sign of the wayward bull. After four miles of searching, Grandpa decided that we must have missed that bull or the tracks where he had travelled across open cropland on either side. We wheeled about and started working our way back. I broke off from the group and rode to the crest of a nearby hill to see if I could spot the bull from a distance. The other riders left me behind. I was in no hurry to catch up. Somebody must have missed some sign of the bull. I was a half-mile behind when they entered the three-acre grove. By the time I reached the grove, they were through it and sweeping the upstream course of the river. I spotted old Jiggs in the grove following the riders. How he had managed to hide himself will always be a mystery.

I drew up Lightning, shook out a loop, and gave a war cry, “Here he is!”

The old bull spun around, gave me a mean-eyed glare, and broke for the open. Being seventeen years old—cocky and immortal—I set Lightning in lone pursuit of a bull that outweighed the pair of us by eight hundred pounds.

I was on the bull within a quarter of a mile. Lightning drew in on his tail and I gave my lariat a side-handed pitch. The loop curled around Jiggs's shoulder and circled over his horns. It was a nearly perfect throw—the kind a fellow always manages when no one is around to see it. I slowly drew back and allowed the slack to work out of the rope so Lightning wasn't jerked off his feet. Jiggs felt the lariat about his horns and turned to face me. Jiggs trembled in anger at the end of the lariat. I called to the others for help. I wasn't sure how long we would maintain the standoff and there was no nearby tree to tie the bull off.