Some Horse Tales

Shaggy

When Clay was about 8 years old we were riding along, him on Shaggy and me on Bone Head (a black mare that belonged to Warren Hannig). Bone Head hadn't been trained much and I was putting riding time on her as a favor to Warren. We's loping along this old road at a pretty good lick and come to a big wash. On the far side the road went over a high hump and when she gets over the top, her legs are about half a jump behind her body and we go into a somersault. I look back when her hind end is pointed up and see them hind feet coming on over. I don't like the idea of her of carcass landing on me so I throw myself to the right side and when she lands on her back only my leg is across the saddle and I'm scrambling in case she rolls my way, but her legs just point upward for a second or two. It's been a hard landing and when I get up I stagger around trying to get some air back into my body.

Clay was right behind us and saw the whole performance and wondered if his of dad ain't been kilt. He's all anxious asking if I'm all right and I can't say a word it seems like for five minutes. Finally I gasp out "got the wind knocked out of me, I'll live" 01' Bone Head has got up and is standing over there looking as dumb as she is.

`Nother time it's just getting dark and me and Shag are loping along a trail that I've ridden a hundred times where we cross over a couple of strands of barb wire lined out along side a cedar post fence line. Then I'm down on the ground flat of my back and the left side of my face aint feeling too good. My fingers come away covered with blood and when I get up I discover that some galoot has hung a stand of the barbed wire over the top of the posts on each side of where the trail crosses. I yank it back off and get on Shag to ride on home. Cathy, she calls young Doc. McGregor and when I go up to his office his stitching is sloppier than a sheep herder in a hurry. I could have done twice as neat a job and I've never had any medical learnin at all. I drink my meals for the next two or three weeks cause them barbs cut clear through to my teeth. But, thanks be to the Lord, He made these carcasses to be self-mending and in time the swelling went down and only the scar remains, making me look like a Mexican knife fighter, but as the years passed by even that disappeared and my mug is back to its normal homely visage.

Ol' Brown

Ol' Brown, Cathy's top horse, he aint handling like I think he ought to so I take my rope down an shake out a small loop. Figure I'll put some learning and remembering back into his head. He's a pretty good horse most of the time but he's getting lazy. I whip him over and under a couple of times, which sure brings him up on his toes and as we travel along I can tell he's got that whipping on his mind. We get down the country about a half mile when, quicker than lightening, he jumps hard, hard to the right and leaves me out there to one side with no horse under me and I drop to the ground with a thud. I still have a good hold on the reins so he doesn't get away. Well, that ol' pony sure got even with me and seeing as how he can move that fast I better just play it cool and call things square or he really might pole me in high fashion. I get back on and we go on down the trail in a more relaxed manner. He seems to be satisfied with our relationship now.

Ol' Brown is a registered quarter horse, rather on the smaller side, weighing about 950 to 1000 lbs, but he's all hoss. He can pack a man all day, climbing them steep hills without hardly working up a sweat where a bigger horse would be puffing and wringing wet. One time I turned him into a pasture with a couple of other geldings, strangers to him. They're off there 150 yards or so looking our way, sizing things up. Brown, he pays them no mind and goes to cropping grass. The big sorrel one figures he'll have some fun and put that brown intruder to flight so he comes toward Brown like a thunder bolt with ears back and big teeth barred, looking like a juggernaut from hell. Ol' Brown hears him coming; his head comes up and quick as a flash he streaks out there full tilt to meet him and his ears are back and his fangs barred. Looks to be a head on collision, but at the last fraction of a second ol' sorrel has a change of mind and switched direction in a most admirable manoeuvre, but not before Brown rakes a long streak of hair from his back and butt. He's still making mighty rapid tracks toward the far side of the pasture as Brown calmly resumes his grazing. Never did know a horse that could bully him. He wasn't a trouble maker but he just wasn't afeard of any of them. He had one fault, being extra sensitive in the center of his front feet. He needed extra protection over them. He was gentle and dependable but would not take abusive treatment. He and Cathy got along real well. He made many trips up on the mountain and was the first horse Liberty rode and carried her on a mountain pack trip when she was 3 years old. In his later life he developed the habit of cribbing, post sucker, or whatever term it's called, sort of a nervous condition. He lost weight in the winter time and resisted being led. Cathy had left home so I sent him to the auction and someone bought him for a kid pony.

Smokey I

Some horses are of the nature and disposition that they do well with and trust only one man or rider. Called a one man horse. Of course most all horses will respond to and perform better for some men than they do for others. My cousin Meb could always outrun me on any horse he chose to ride. He just had more horse savvy than I did. My Smokey horse would do anything I put him to, but he was wild and suspicious of other men. I could ride him without anything on his head and he'd handle as well as a horse with a bridle.

Ernie Blake bought a spoiled thoroughbred that the various owners couldn't do anything with. They'd even put him in the bucking string, but all he did was run. Ernie petted him and fed him good and acted like he trusted him and that ol' pony was on his way back to being a good using horse when I borrowed him to ride up on the mountain. He liked to jump sideways every so often and a feller had to sit deep in the saddle or he'd lose you, but he was a good traveler and the most coordinated horse I ever rode. On a rocky trail he would never step on the rocks and his hind feet always tracked where his front feet had been. He could go off a steep rocky trail at a high trot and never miss a lick or disturb a rock. I used him for about 10 days and by the end of that trip I was wishing he was mine.

Molly Mustang

Horses have got more emotional feelings than most people give them credit for. They get attached to each other and to people and it about breaks their heart when they are separated. They become homesick just like people and will travel long distances to return to the country of their birth or a place where they've been treated well for a long time. I've told in another story of the Red Roan mare that me and the Snyder boys caught at the Andrews Spring mustang trap. Walter and Sherm Shelly and Josh Welsh who were professional mustangers had tried to rope her several times and she'd always outrun them. They'd named her Molly, the red roan from Agway Country. But when we caught her and took her away from her home range, she died of a broken heart.

Dugan I

Grant and I rode Dugan over to Uncle Martin's gate and I got off to open it and told Grant to move forward into the saddle. When I pulled the wire gate open, Dugan started to trot over toward the Pond because he was thirsty. Grant was only 4 years old then and didn't know how to handle a horse yet, so instead of pulling on the reins he just grabbed the horn of the saddle with both hands and began to whoop it up at the top of his voice. This was something new and strange to this good ol' horse which caused him to temporarily forget his thirst and he broke into an easy lope to circle back toward the gate. Mom had walked down from the dugout, carrying Keith who was only a baby, and she hollered for Dugan to come here, so he loped up to her and stopped. When Grant saw his mama standing there in front of him, he stopped his kiying and we all walked over to the pond and tanked up on that good, tan colored water.

Blaze & Hi-Step

We had been over the mountain to Pinto for the family reunion and were now on the way back. It was a dark night as our horses trotted along the old 2-track road at a lively clip. Liberty was astride Blaze and I was on Hi-Step. His long legs are stretched out there, just under a gallop but Blaze has got the edge on him by about two feet when to my astonishment Blaze raises himself in as high a jump as he can. We're now passing through an old drift fence where the gate has never been closed before. We'd traveled along the same route a few days before and I'm of the opinion that it's never used, but it sure had been on this black night and Blaze had seen it just a split second before and being as how he couldn't stop he made a mighty effort to go over the top. His knees hit the upper wire strand and yanks the gate loose at both ends. He goes down on his chest and nose, then leans over on his left shoulder with Liberty's leg underneath, but his hind legs are able to keep him from tipping on down.

Liberty's there on the ground in front of Hi-Step who had slid to a stop. It's so dark I can't hardly see a thing but I know what's happened. I'm on the ground quick to see how my girl is. She tells me her leg hurts but for me to check on Blaze. He's standing there a few feet away and I'm able to dimly see his palomino color. I talk to him comforting like and feel his chest and front legs for bloody cuts, but, thank the Lord, don't find any. That old barb wire gate is wrapped all around his legs and I can't see at all, only by feel. I've no wire cutters or pliers of any kind so go to twisting back and forth on the wire, good thing it's old rusty stuff and ain't too hard to break.

Liberty's laying over there worrying about her horse and telling me to hurry and saying how her leg is hurting bad. Blaze stands real still, which I'm grateful for. Finally as I feel around both front and hind feet, can't find no more wire, so I get the reins and lead him over to Liberty. It's a mighty painful ordeal for her to get back in the saddle and we ride on home at a walk. That ol' pony, Blaze, used his head that night as he stood still while I worked the wire from around his legs. Next day the Doc checked Liberty out and put a cast on her broken leg. It's somewhat awkward to get on a hoss with, but Blaze seemed to under-stand as they continued 4-H-ing.