Cattle-Ranch to College Part 24

"How'd the earth look from the bird's-eye view you got of it, Tony?"

said Frank to Greaser Tony, who was off in a corner counting his bruises and swearing softly.

"Here, Shorty, you ride him; you're always lookin' for somethin'

lively."

Shorty's inclination to kick about his mount was well known; he had a way of calling whatever horse was set apart for him to ride "old cow" or "kitten." The proposition to put him on the "Outlaw" and tie him there was hailed with delight, but he dropped from his place on the fence and vanished before any one could lay hands on him. At this juncture Frank came to where John sat, and pointing to one of the men said, "That's the horse-range boss. I advise you to ride that little buckskin yourself; 'twon't do you any harm and they'll think a lot of you."

Any of these men could ride the horse, but it is never pleasant to ride a bucking broncho, and it is sometimes dangerous.

John accepted his friend's advice, and when Frank shouted, "Here's a chap that'll ride the cayuse," he jumped over the fence into the corral and went up to the outlaw. He was already saddled and a hackamore was twisted round his nose. John thought he knew horses pretty well, for his long intimacy with Baldy gave him the inside track of equine character.

The little buckskin's unbroken spirit and courage pleased him and he felt friendly. The little fellow had been abused; his sides were cut and barred by quirting, his head and nose were skinned by rough ropes in still rougher hands.

All men were his enemies, and at John's approach he struck out with his fore feet, but the boy avoided them and caught the hackamore close up to the head. He put his left foot in the stirrup. The horse's eye was upon him, but though the pony was quick he was quicker, and was in the saddle and had caught the right stirrup before the first jump was finished.

Round one in favor of the boy, and the on-lookers said "Good!"

Then began some of the "tallest" stiff-legged bucking ever seen in that corral. Head between his legs, back humped, squealing shrilly, the little horse shot up in the air and came down stiff-legged with a jar that made the ground tremble. Every trick known to the cunning breed was tried--jumping sideways, twisting in the air, plunging, rearing front and back--all in vain. John stuck like a leech till the "Outlaw" tired himself out. He lasted for fifteen minutes with scarcely a pause. Then with head drooping, nostrils turned out till the red showed, literally drenched with sweat, he stood quiet, his body exhausted but his spirit unconquered.

John dismounted and pulled off the saddle, patted the little horse's neck, and turned him loose.

It was a pretty exhibition of horsemanship, and the spectators appreciated it. It was done fairly, there was no "pulling leather"

(holding on) or "hobbling stirrups" (tying them underneath the horse--a great a.s.sistance).

A number of the punchers expressed their approbation. "Good work, kid."

"That's all right, pardner," said they. The boss said nothing, but a week or two later John got orders to come down to the ranch and bring his bed.

CHAPTER XVI.

A BRONCHO BUSTER.

The Sun River Ranch was a large one, and many cowboys were employed to look after the stock; practically all the work was done on horseback, the cow-puncher or the ranchman never deigning to go afoot--indeed it would not have been possible to cover the necessary ground by any other means. A great many horses therefore were needed, each cowboy requiring three or four, especially at those times of the year when they are ridden very hard and have to be changed frequently. The care and raising of the horse herd were consequently very important parts of the cattle-ranch business. The cow-ponies were bred on the ranch and allowed to run free (it being a well-known fact that they would not stray very far) until the colts were old enough to break to the saddle, when they were taken in hand by certain of the men who showed particular skill in that direction.

John did not appreciate the full significance of the order to return to the home ranch till Frank, who seemed to be a walking information bureau, enlightened him.

"If you want to go on the horse range Harris will take you," he was informed. "It's cleaner work than chasing cows, and there's more money in it. Want to go?"

"You bet," was John's short and emphatic answer. His encounter with the little buckskin broncho was exciting and he wanted more; then, too, cattle are tame, stupid creatures compared with horses.

"Here's your man," said Frank to Harris, the head of the horse outfit, introducing John. "He says he's ready now."

"Good! You'll find Matt and Jerry in the corral now. Go over and pitch in. There's twenty-five head that I want ridable by the time round-up begins; that's only a week, and you'll have to work 'em hard."

And so John became a broncho buster.

He reached the rough circular enclosure made of split rails laid one over the other alternately and strongly braced to stand the strain that would surely be brought to bear. Inside the corral were about twenty-five horses that had not seen a man half a dozen times in their lives; they were now trying to get as far away as possible from the two men, Matt and Jerry, and ran frantically around close to the fence that walled them in. They were as wild as deer and about as swift.

_Swish_! hissed the rope. As John climbed the fence it settled over the neck of a big bay. In a second the boy was inside and hanging on with the other two men to the end of the rope. The bay plunged and tugged, almost frantic with fright and rage, but the three kept their grip and gradually pulled him by jerks away from the bunch and towards the centre.

Nearer and nearer he is worked towards the "snubbing post," a stout log stuck upright in the ground; a couple of turns round this holds him fast. Jerry takes in the slack as he plunges and jumps until he faces the post only a few yards off; then he stops, plants his feet, and sets back on the rope; the tightening noose shuts off his wind, and he wheezes and struggles for a few moments, totters, and falls breathless.

Matt springs to his head and sits down on it, the rope is relaxed, and the poor beast is allowed to breathe again. Matt still holding him down, though he struggles with might and main, John knots the rope loosely round his neck and shoulders, runs it back under the hind fetlock, draws it tight, pulling the leg up close to the body, and makes it fast. At a word from Jerry, Matt jumps to one side and the bay struggles to his feet--helpless, as he has but three legs to stand on. John rubs his neck soothingly, keeping a sharp watch the while for nipping teeth; he believes even a horse has some feelings. Matt then takes the noose from the neck, and, forcing it into his mouth, leads the end back of the ears, makes a half-hitch round the nose, then pa.s.ses the end through the noose again--lo! a rough sort of bridle or "hackamore." Taking the loose end, Matt begins to pull the animal's head from side to side until he understands that he must follow. The first lesson is, never run against a rope; it prevents comfortable breathing.

Saddling comes next. A saddle blanket is thrown over the horse and rubbed gently up and down his back to acquaint him with the feel of it, then comes the saddle; the trappings frighten him and he struggles, trips, and falls. The operation is repeated, until finally the cinches are drawn and buckled securely. The big bay snorts and trembles in every fibre, terrified at his bonds, the first he has encountered in his wild, free life--he cannot understand it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE SNUBBING POST HOLDS HIM FAST.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: JERRY TAKES IN THE SLACK.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: JOHN KNOTS THE ROPE LOOSELY ROUND HIS NECK. (_Page 263._)]

Matt and Jerry have ridden two wild horses apiece that morning, so John volunteers to tackle the bay. The horse is still thrashing round at a great rate, but his foot is still tied up and he can do little. John reaches up and knots his handkerchief round the poor beast's eyes, then releases the foot, mounts quickly into the saddle, and leaning forward removes the blindfold. The frightened animal stands still, cowering like a whipped cur or a chicken that sees a hawk circling: above her: he seems to be waiting for the strange, dreadful creature on his back to strike him some fearful blow or sink its claws into his flesh--dreading he knows not what. He bounds forward a few steps--still the burden sticks, and he stops and looks round at it. His fear fades and the courage and energy of his race return; he determines to get rid of this thing that clings so tightly. He leaps forward, runs a few yards full tilt, then stops short, fore legs stiff, hind legs crouching; it's a very sudden jerk, but John hangs on with his knees, leaning far back in the saddle. Again the horse tries the manoeuvre; no use; he rears on his hind legs and then on his fore legs; he jumps sideways, bucks, pitches, kicks, without a moment's rest for fifteen minutes. There is no pause, no chance to get a better hold, to take breath; it is a continuous violent paroxysm of motion. At the end of it the bay is well-nigh exhausted and all in a tremble, while John, though pretty well jarred, is calm and master of the situation. The horse at length submits to the superior will, and, magnificent still but now under control, does his best to carry out his master's wishes.

By the time the bay was well in hand and John was ready to take the saddle off and let him go free for the rest of the day, Matt and Jerry had roped another horse and the same tactics were pursued with it. So the work was carried through till dark, each man taking his turn riding horses that had never been bestrode by a living creature before. There was a kind of wild, exhilarating excitement about it, but it was terribly wearing, and the jar and strain were enough to use up a dozen men unaccustomed to the work.

The following day all the horses were ridden again, with less difficulty this time, though they were lively enough to suit any one. Some took a week's training, some a month's, some were never wholly subdued. To this latter cla.s.s belonged the little buckskin "Outlaw," with which John had had such a lively time and who made his reputation as a broncho buster.

The boy and the horse had much to do with each other for a number of years. Their close acquaintanceship came about thus:

The little buckskin was roped regularly every morning, choked down, and after a great deal of struggling, saddled; then some one of the cow-punchers would ride him until he was thoroughly exhausted. This was continued so long that the little horse became but a bag of bones, chafed and bruised, a wreck, but unbroken in spirit. In spite of everything he continued a fighter with each ounce of strength that was in him--a "dead game horse."

"He's an outlaw if ever there was one," said Harris one day. "If we can't give him away we'll have to shoot him, for he's making every other horse wild, though he's near ridden to death."

"Let me have him," said John, who happened to be standing near and overheard the remark. "He's a dead game little beast and I like him. I think I can work him."

"Take him and welcome, kid," said Harris, with an air of relief. "The wilder he is the tougher. Tame him and you'll have a star."

And so John came into possession of the little buckskin, whom he named appropriately "Lightning" or "Lite." Jerry said, when the question of giving him a proper name was under consideration, "I've known several horses named Lightning, but I've never seen a hoss as would fit the name like him." The boy's heart had not so gone out to a horse since Baldy's time, and though the two ponies were very different in appearance and disposition, in after years John found it hard to tell which he most cared for.

Before beginning the training he let up on the terrible strain, the constant struggle, to which "Lite" had been subjected and allowed him to recuperate; he took care of him himself, and later, when he grew stronger, allowed no one else to ride him. Gradually the horse learned to know his master and understood that that master would not ill-treat him; and so there grew up a sort of sympathy between them. "Pitch" he always did when John first mounted him, but he soon settled down to steady business, and a mighty capable beast he proved to be.

Though John found the wages of a broncho buster good, the work was very hard, it being the most violent sort of gymnastics all day long. When night came he was glad enough to sit down and rest; he would, in fact, not have been sorry to turn in right after supper, but the talk and stories the men told were too good to be lost. It was near round-up season and the riders were being gathered, preparatory to starting off on that great yearly summing-up expedition. There were men from all over the United States and Mexico, college-bred men and men of the soil. No man knew the other's history, nor would any one ask questions. There was hardly one but had strange experiences, some of which they told. Then there were songs, many of which were familiar to all and therefore popular. Frank Bridges soon became a favorite with everyone; his good nature and jolly fellowship won him many friends. Moreover, he had a good voice and was constantly called upon to exhibit his ability.

It was on a restful evening, after supper was over and the last rays of the sun were sinking; the men were lounging about in the most comfortable positions they could find; the talk had died down to a monosyllable now and then. Matt, the broncho buster, broke the silence: "Frank, give us the 'Gra.s.s of Uncle Sam'; you're the only feller that can remember words and tune both."

And Frank, obliging as always, without any excuses or palavering, sang the following in a good strong baritone:

[Music: Now, peo--ple of the East-ern towns, it's lit--tle

that you know A--bout the West--ern prair-ies: Where the

beef you eat does grow; Where the hors-es they run wild

with the mountain-sheep and ram; And the cow-boy

sleeps con-tent-ed on the gra.s.s of Un-cle Sam.]