Sunday's Colt & Other Stories Read online

  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 c
olt 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.

  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 d
o 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.”