The Good and the Bad

Walter Shelley stopped by our camp one day and ate dinner with us. He said that he and his brother, Sherman, and Josh Welch were trapping mustangs at Paucum Spring, south of Black Rock Mountain, to ship them to California for chicken and fox feed. He said that some of them were pretty good horses. He told me he would sell me one for $10.00 so I had Joe Atkin, the boss, give him 10 bucks. In a few days Joe came out from town and said that Walter had tied up a mustang stud at Dad's place.

I mounted up on Loco Mare to ride in and fetch him out to the herd. It was about 20 miles to town so we had to move right along. Traveling was one of Loco Mare's better traits. She was so mixed up in her drug addicted mind that she didn't know when she got tired. We arrived home about noon. Tied to the cow corral was a pretty blue roan colt about 3 years old with an intelligent looking head. He sure did kick and snort though. He didn't like being a captive to strange looking two legged creatures. I visited with Mom for a little while. The season was early spring with school still in session so my brothers were not home. In the rough handling since he lost his freedom the blue horse had learned to lead, so with him in tow we headed back to the sheep camp. Joe Atkin was lambing about 4000 head of ewes early that spring in Mokyak country. The green feed was up pretty good and the lambing process was doing well. Next day Clarence, one of the older men, castrated my blue stud.

I was herding the runners (those ewes that hadn't given birth yet). The more experienced men took care of the many little bunches of ewes and lambs scattered out across the landscape. When the lambs got old enough to get around well they were put in with an ever growing herd of ewes and lambs. My little blue hoss was healing up nicely from the operation when one night the horses went out along the Bundyville/ St George road and some vehicle ran into him making a bad cut across his kneecap. After a couple more weeks he was healing up pretty good from that so I talked to him real serious and told him that his purpose in life was to carry me where ever I wanted to go. He listened intently and seemed to believe me. I put a loop over his nose and climbed up on his back, then nudged him with my heels. He walked ahead real perky like as if he had been doing it all his life. His head was up with his ears set forward, indicating he was proud to be my horse.

Whenever I wasn't busy I would keep company with my Smoky horse. He was a throwback to Arab ancestors for he had the build, disposition and spirit of a highly bred Arabian, also the most prominent Arabian color. His feet were black and well shaped with long black socks. He was also highly intelligent and a mutual trust developed between us. He knew I was his friend, that I would do nothing to hurt him. He allowed me to handle all four of his feet. Soon I could jump on him with no rope or saddle. He was full of life and liked to run, but turned and stopped by leg pressure or pull on his mane. Most of the time when herding the sheep I left Smoky to graze with the hobbled camp horses. I wanted him to eat and grow. Old Loco Mare had to be ridden regular or she got to be more of a lunatic than ever.

One day the runner herd was grazing along the road when a CCC truck stopped and 2 young fellers got out. I was sitting there on Old Loco, not far away. They hollered, hello, and came over to talk. In a little bit they wanted to know if I would let them ride my horse. I told them that it was all right with me, but she was a crazy one and I didn't think they could get on. They laughed at that, said they had horses at home and knew how to handle a horse. Well, what could I say more? I had warned them. Even an experienced Arizona buckaroo might have some difficulty with this crazy critter if he wasn't acquainted with her tricks. I got off, then got back on demonstrating how it had to be done if you wanted to keep control of her. One of them took the reins and I moved over by her head. As I thought he might, he failed to cheek her. (Pull her head around to him by the headstall), so I took hold of it. He crammed his big work shoe into that oxbow stirrup, grabbed the horn and cantle, and gave a big heave.

Old Loco's head went down with a mad grunt as she gave a big jump forward. I fell on her head in a bull dog position as she tore up the ground. The CCC boy didn't get on and now his foot was stuck in the stirrup and he held onto the saddle for dear life. Crazy's hind foot was skinning hide off the shin of the leg he was standing on as around we went, raising a big dust. If I hadn't been on her head she would have stampeded down the country. My hold on her head kept her circling to the left making it possible for him to hold on .After what seemed a long time his foot came loose and he fell away from her, so I let go except for the reins. Neither one of those boys wanted to try her again. There were no crazy horses like her back in their country.

A few days later, when herding the runners, I stepped off from her to rest my legs and britches and got a little careless. Before I knew it she was headed over the hill with the stirrups flapping, so I walked back to camp and got Smoky. He was better company and didn't want to run off and leave me. About then Joe drove up to camp and said that as he was driving out from town he saw this big dust coming down the road and he could tell that whatever it was, it was traveling fast. When it got closer he saw it was old Loco. She was right in the middle of the road, her head and neck was straight forward, with ears laid back. The stirrups were flapping up and down in the wind and she was running like as if she was the devil himself in pursuit of some repented preacher.

Joe said he didn't think she even saw him, that he barely got off the road before she clattered by. He thinks she'd have run right over the top of his pickup truck if he hadn't turned it off the edge to bounce down over a big bank and some large rocks before coming to a stop. When he had time to look for Loco she was just a speck in a cloud of dust way down the road. He said that was the closest he had ever come to total obliteration in his 45 years of life. Joe was a good tale teller. He took advantage of every occasion to make a funny story. I went to town with him that evening and luckily that crazy old critter was there at the cow corral. I don't know what made her brain tick the way it did. (Yes I do, it was that loco weed). Next day I rode her back out to the herd.

The moon was full now and no rain had come to the land for awhile. The green feed was starting to dry up. The runners were hard to hold on the bed ground at night. The ewes lambed at night as well as in the daytime so Joe figured that if the herd left the bed ground to feed at night many of the newly born lambs would get lost from their mothers and make doggies out of them. The herd was also likely to mix up with the bunches of ewes and lambs bedded down elsewhere. He told me to stay with them at night and hold them on the bed ground. He would not let me use a dog for fear of mixing them up and separating the new lambs from their mothers.

Every night I walked round and round that herd of sheep constantly turning back those hungry, contrary critters. I practiced bouncing rocks off their heads. That was the most effective spot to hit them. We hadn't sheared yet so the wool cushioned the blow if the rock struck their body, so the head was my target and I took sadistic pleasure from the sound of a "carump" as a well placed rock bounced off the hard skull of an old ewe. I watched the Big Dipper move from the west up and over to the east of the North Star as it lay low above the eastern hills at the break of day. By then a well worn path encircled that bunch of sheep. Before sun up Lewis or Clarence would come from camp and the sheep were let trail off the bed ground while the new mothers were turned back. When I got to camp I had to fix my breakfast and there was no shady place to roll out my bed. There was always things going on around the wagon that interrupted my sleep: horses, men, and dogs moving about.

Once or twice camp was moved to another location. The day herder gathered the sheep in a bunch about sundown and I was expected to take over and hold them till sun up. Each night a new trail was worn into the earth, rocks, washes and brush as I traveled continually around and around. My rock throwing accuracy increased as night after night I cast those deadly missles. The old ewes began to fear me like a dog. When I approached they fled for their lives. Ten long nights. My body quit functioning properly. I choked for water as there was no suitable container to pack water in. I probably walked at least 25 miles each night. My legs and body were weary. I wanted to be dependable and do the job required of me, but I finally decided I couldn't keep going any longer so told Joe I was quitting. I could not stand it anymore. He said "The new moon has waned so I think they will be all right." Then I went back to day herding.

The runners were a smaller bunch now and the strain eased up. Smoky was glad to have my company again and I even enjoyed riding old Loco. About 2 weeks later a shearing crew set up nearby and I helped to tromp wool and work in the corrals. Most of the ewes had all lambed out so a herd of about 2000 head of early lamb-ers was put together to trail to summer range in the mountains. About 10 days later Lewis Black and I started the late lambers east toward the Hurricane Rim and up over the Honeymoon Trail to the Short Creek Gap where Joe owned some grazing land. Joe paid me off then. Here my memory blanks out but I think I rode Smoky out to Uncle Roy Whip's ranch on the Arizona Strip and worked with Meb that summer. Maybe it was at this time that I gave Old Loco to Ben Blake.