Home Ranch

by Ralph Moody

  When I went back to the corral, Mr. Bendt was filing one of Pinto’s front hoofs. He didn’t look up, but said, “Reckon I’d best trim these down tender ’fore you kids bust his knees up. He ain’t never been trained for ropin’; ain’t learnt to take the strain of hard stops on his hind legs.”

  “Then it’s all right to teach him the tricks?” I asked.

  “Don’t see no harm, so long as you’re halfway careful,” he told me. “But if I know my gal, she ain’t goin’ to let you stop at learnin’ tricks to horses.”

  I waited a minute to see if he was going to say anything more, and asked, “Then it’s all right for me to show her a few of the tricks that aren’t too dangerous?”

  “They’re all dangerous, ain’t they?” he asked. “If they wasn’t they wouldn’t be good enough to win at a roundup.”

  “Well, they’re not awfully dangerous if you have your horses trained just right,” I said. “They all work by timing, and a lot depends on the horse.”

  “Always does. Nine-tenths of bein’ a good horseman is learnin’ a horse what you want of him. Half the other tenth is in leavin’ him free to do what you learnt him.”

  I still didn’t know if he meant that I could or couldn’t show Hazel how to do any of the tricks, so I said, “What I need to know most is if it will be all right to show Hazel some of the safer stunts. She’s been kind of . . .”

  “Ain’t it kind of hard for a man to tell what he needs to know most?” he asked, without stopping his filing.

  “Well, yes, I suppose it is,” I said, “but I do need to know if it would be all right for me to teach Hazel.”

  Mr. Bendt kept on filing until Pinto flinched. Then he dropped the hoof, straightened up, and said, “Guess that’ll learn you not to throw too much weight on ’em.” He slapped Pinto, turned to me, and said, “Tell Hazel to pull him up easy and take care on her first few stops. He’s goin’ to raise dust when he pounds them tender hoofs down. She’ll get shook up, but if she’s mindful she won’t get throwed. If I do say so, she ain’t a bad little rider—for a girl.”

  “She’s the best I ever saw, but I need to know . . .”

  “Yeah, I know! I been studyin’ on it. Reckon Helen would raise Old Ned if she knowed what you kids was up to. Reckon I shouldn’t ought to put you two workin’ together; not after Hazel knowin’ ’bout you trick-ridin’ in the roundup. Has she ever saw you do one of them stunts?”

  “Well,” I said, “not on purpose, but I did one by mistake yesterday. A pheasant flew up in front of Pinch, and when he stopped too quick I somersaulted without thinking.”

  “Land on your feet like Jenny seen you do at the roundup?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, “but it was only because the timing happened to work just right.”

  “The grease is in the fire then,” he said, as if he were talking to himself. “She ain’t goin’ to get bested if she can help it, and she’ll get stove up less if she’s learnt how to do it the right way.” Then he looked right into my eyes, and said, “I don’t want you kids divin’ off no horses out in the brush. If you want to learn her, you’ll have to do it here at the corrals, and when there’s one another of us men around to pick her up if she gets hurt. Now ain’t it about time we got to work on them calves?”

  13

  Keeping Time with the Fiddler

  SUNDAY wasn’t a regular working day on the home ranch, but the day when lots of odd jobs, like separating cows and calves, were done. As soon as he’d finished with Pinto, Mr. Bendt sent me to call Ned, while he called the dairyhands. Until cows and calves were separated they belonged to the cowhands, but then they were turned over to the dairymen.

  Hazel and I had been bringing in about fifteen cows a day, and they’d been put with their calves into a fenced pasture behind the dairy barn. As soon as we were saddled up, Ned and I brought a dozen or so cows and their calves into the cutting corral. On one side, gates opened into smaller corrals, and from these, runways led to the milking-herd pasture and the calf sheds. It was our job to put each cow or calf through whichever gate the dairymen opened for it, and then we were done with them until they were turned back to us as pasture calves or dry cows.

  When everything was ready and the dairymen were at their gates, Mr. Bendt rode into the cutting corral on Clay. “Don’t come in for ’em till I get ’em plumb cut loose,” he told us, then turned Clay’s head toward the cattle that were huddled tight in the far corner of the corral.

  No one watching them would have thought they had the least bit of interest in those cattle. Mr. Bendt sat slouched in the saddle, with the reins held rather loosely in his left hand. As the milling cows watched nervously, Clay walked toward them at a turtle’s pace. I was watching every move, but could barely see Mr. Bendt draw the reins one way or another to guide him.

  With all the cows and calves having to be separated, I’d expected Mr. Bendt to take almost any animal on the outside of the herd, but he didn’t do it. Step by slow step, Clay came to the edge of the huddle. The cattle didn’t break away from the corner, or seem to be any more nervous than when he first started toward them. For a minute or two, I thought Mr. Bendt hadn’t made up his mind which animal he wanted to bring out. He seemed to be slowly stirring the herd around—as if it had been cold molasses, and Clay had been the spoon.

  When it had turned about half way around, I noticed that Mrs. Tompkins, the slab-sided Holstein I’d named for our substitute teacher, was on the outside. Her black-and-white calf was close beside her, but toward the inside of the herd. At the moment I spotted them, Mr. Bendt moved the reins just a trifle, let them drop loose, and took hold of the saddle horn with both hands.

  From there on there was no question about which animal he and Clay were after; it was Mrs. Tompkins’ calf. But how Clay knew it, I couldn’t figure. He hadn’t even been looking at the calf when Mr. Bendt gave him a free rein, but he began edging his way toward it, inch by inch. I don’t believe Mrs. Tompkins ever guessed what he was up to until he had her and her calf edged out three or four feet from the rest of the herd. Then it was too late.

  From being a turtle, Clay changed into a cat playing with a mouse. When Mrs. Tompkins tried to dodge back past him, he dodged right with her, to head her off. She whirled and went the other way, but he was still between her and the herd. After two or three more tries, she threw her head up and stood, seeming to dare him, the way she had me when she first came out of the brush. Clay stood facing her, his weight on his hind legs, and teetering on his front ones, ready to dodge whichever way she did.

  Watching Clay, I could almost feel him planning what to do next. Suddenly he made a quick lunge forward. As Mrs. Tompkins sprang out of his way, he cut between her and her calf. Before she missed the calf Clay had it against the corral fence and running toward us. I’d been so busy watching Clay that I forgot my part of the job, but Ned spurred in behind Clay, and ran the calf through the gateway that one of the dairymen had opened.

  The moment Ned took the calf, Clay became a turtle again, and turned back slowly toward the herd. It wasn’t until then that I realized I hadn’t learned a thing about riding a cutting horse from watching Mr. Bendt. From the moment he’d let the reins go loose, I hadn’t seen him any more than if Clay had been riderless. I was feeling pretty much ashamed of myself when I noticed that Mr. Bendt had turned Clay toward me. “Catch on?” he asked, as he came alongside.

  “No, sir,” I said, “I don’t believe I learned a thing—except to go into the herd real slow and easy. If you picked that black-and-white calf yourself, I don’t know how you let Clay know it. And after he started to crowd Mrs. Tompkins out, I forgot all about watching you.”

  “Mrs. Who?”

  “Oh,” I said, “that’s just a name Hazel and I put on that Holstein when we found her.”

  “How come that name?”

  “Well,” I told him, “she held her head up and stared at Lady just the way she did at Clay, and it kind of reminded me of a substitute teacher w
e had last spring.”

  “Better not tell Jenny that,” he chuckled. “She was a substitute schoolma’am up to last winter. Now you pay heed while we go in and get Miz Tompkins! You watched the horse work; now take note what I’m doin’.”

  That time I didn’t watch Clay any more than I could help, but kept most of my attention on Mr. Bendt. It helped, too, to know which animal he was after.

  Mrs. Tompkins was standing at the edge of the herd, bawling for her calf, when Mr. Bendt turned Clay back to the cutting. As he moved slowly toward her, she stuck out her head and bellowed at him. When he’d covered half the distance she turned and plowed back into the corner. Clay didn’t change his creeping gait, and Mr. Bendt didn’t make a move of any kind. But I was pretty sure that Clay knew what cow they were after as well as I did. Again he sort of drifted into the herd, mixed with it, and began to edge slowly toward Mrs. Tompkins.

  She had her head turned toward him, watching, and jammed her way along the fence. If Mr. Bendt made the slightest move, or drew the lines either way, it was so little I couldn’t see it, but Clay moved slowly to head her off. When she saw him coming, she whirled, dropped her head, and hooked her way in the other direction. It was then that I saw Mr. Bendt make his first move, and I would have missed it if I hadn’t been watching him like a coyote. He seemed to lean forward an inch or two in the saddle. Then he let the lines go loose, grabbed the horn, and Clay shouldered his way through the cows in front of him.

  Before Mrs. Tompkins was more than two lengths up the fence line, Clay had her pinned tight. His shoulder was even with her hip bone, and she could neither turn out nor whirl back. In her panic she raced straight forward, and Clay followed her only until Ned and I were in position to take her through an open gateway.

  When I turned Pinch back, Mr. Bendt was waiting for me. “Wasn’t nothin’ to that one,” he said. “Didn’t give me no ridin’ to do. Want I should bring out another one?”

  “I’d like it if you would,” I told him. “I think I learned something that time.”

  “Good! Which one you want me to fetch out?”

  I started to say, “Mrs. Spivak,” but caught myself, and said, “There’s a big Durham in there, with thick shoulders and a heavy brisket, and she’s got a lively bull calf with a white face. I’d like to see you get the calf.”

  “Seen ’em,” he said; “he’ll be a good one.” Then he turned Clay and started back at a slow creep. There was nothing much different from the first time, until the Durham and her calf had been brought to the outside of the herd. But I did notice one thing: when Clay stirred the cows around in the corner, he managed to get fairly close to every one of them. And it was when his head was near the Durham that Mr. Bendt drew the lines just a trifle toward her.

  Mrs. Spivak didn’t try to dodge back into the herd, but lumbered away with her calf tight at her flank. Clay followed close alongside, and I had my eyes fixed on Mr. Bendt, watching for the slightest signal. When it came, it was so slight and quick I wasn’t sure I’d really seen it. Quicker than I could think, Clay charged at the cow and turned her. The calf didn’t turn quick enough, and in a split second Clay was between him and his mother. Then the fun began.

  That calf of Mrs. Spivak’s could run faster than a jack rabbit, turn quicker than a cottontail, and had the determination of a lion. Bawling like a spoiled brat, and with his tail stuck straight up, he was bound to get back to his mother, and did more fancy ducking and dodging than a cork bobber when you’ve got a big trout on the line. Clay was outguessing him on every dodge, but I missed about half the fun because I had to keep all my attention on Mr. Bendt. He was all of six-foot-two, and weighed over two hundred pounds, but was always in perfect balance. Holding the horn with both hands, he seemed to be as loose as a sack of feathers, but anyone could see that his weight was always with the turn of his horse.

  After it was pretty well winded, Clay pinned Mrs. Spivak’s calf against the fence, and brought him up for Ned and me to take over. When I turned back from the gate, Mr. Bendt had dismounted and was taking his saddle off Clay. “Switch horses,” he called, “if you don’t mind me ridin’ Pinch.”

  “Of course, I don’t mind,” I told him, as I rode up, “but I’ll never be able to ride Clay the way you can.”

  “A man never knows what he can do till he’s tried his best,” he told me. “Cinch your saddle on tight and go fetch that calf’s maw; she’ll be an easy one for you.”

  I’ll never be sure whether I guided Clay to that big red cow or not. If I moved the lines it wasn’t more than an inch, and if I leaned her way in the saddle it wasn’t any farther, but Clay seemed to read my mind. His steps were as slow and sneaky as a cat’s when it is creeping up on a bird. If he’d been moving in water, he’d barely have made a ripple, but each step took him closer to the red cow. When I was positive Clay knew which cow we were after, I let the reins fall loose and took the saddle horn in both hands. From there on my only job was to keep from hindering him.

  With her calf already taken away, Mrs. Spivak was easy to cut from the herd. Clay pushed her straight out, and, if she hadn’t become confused, she’d have waddled straight to the gate where we’d driven out her calf. But when we were only started, another calf bawled from the herd. In an awkward, lunging turn Mrs. Spivak tried to dodge back, but Clay had her cut off before she was half around. My bottom slipped a bit in the saddle, and there was a pull on my arms, but I’d seen Clay’s move coming and was able to keep my balance. Mrs. Spivak made one more try to turn back, then trotted, lumberingly, toward the open gateway. As Ned came to meet her, he called out, “What’s this one’s name?”

  “Mrs. Spivak,” I called back.

  Mr. Bendt, Ned, and all the dairyhands hooted and laughed as though I’d just told them a big joke. “Betcha my life Hazel picked out that name!” Mr. Bendt hooted. “Don’t you boys never tell Pete about this or he’ll drop the price o’ cream ten cents a gallon.”

  I couldn’t be sure whether the men were laughing at me because we’d named the cow, or at the name we’d given her, but I wanted to get the subject changed, so I asked Mr. Bendt, “Did I do all right that time?”

  “Done all right at settin’ him on, but don’t fight them stirrups so much on the turns; go with the horse.”

  I didn’t know I’d used the stirrups at all, or think I’d slipped enough in the saddle that anybody could say I hadn’t gone with the horse. But, of course, I couldn’t say so, and asked, “Which one shall I bring out this time?”

  “There’s a little Jersey in there,” he told me. “Try fetchin’ her out and leavin’ the calf.”

  I knew he was talking about the little cow I’d named Mrs. Hazlett for my Sunday School teacher in Littleton, and was glad he’d picked me a gentle easy one. Hazel and I hadn’t had a bit of trouble with her, she didn’t try to sneak away, and always stayed in the middle of the herd. That’s where she was when I turned Clay back toward the corner.

  We went into the herd real carefully, but I didn’t know just what to do when we got there. With the little Jersey right in the middle, there was no use in starting the cows milling to get her on the outside. It seemed better to move Clay in behind her and try pushing her straight out, but at the first step he took in her direction, she began wriggling away. I still wanted to keep behind her, but was a little bit confused about how to do it.

  I didn’t know I made a move in the saddle or with the lines, but I must have. Anyways, I got Clay confused too, and had a hard time making him understand which cow we were after—and that we wanted her and not the calf. By the time I was ready to let the reins loose I didn’t need anybody to tell me that Clay was peeved. He had his ears pinned back tight, and shoved Mrs. Hazlett roughly to the outside of the herd, as if he were trying to show how much better he could do without any help from me.

  I thought I’d had plenty of trouble inside the herd, but when we got to the outside I found it had just begun. Mrs. Hazlett didn’t turn out to be any gentle, Sunda
y School teacher kind of cow. As soon as she found she was outside the herd, and that her calf was still in it, she went crazier than a cat with a salmon can on its head. She could duck, dodge, and whirl so fast I couldn’t keep track of her, but Clay could outguess her at every turn. Whirling, racing, doubling back, and sideslipping, he made his body into a fence between her and the herd, and never once let his head turn away from her.

  With bucking horses, I’d learned to watch their heads, and to set myself to go whichever way the head turned. With Clay there was nothing to go by. His head swung back and forth to face the cow, and I could never guess which way the saddle would slip out from under me. All I could do was to hang onto the horn for dear life, and hope I wouldn’t fall off before Mr. Bendt and Ned rode in to take that pesky cow out of the corral. In some way I managed to stick, but was never square in the saddle for two seconds at a time.

  As soon as Mrs. Hazlett was out through the gateway, I rode up to Mr. Bendt, and said, “I guess I made a pretty bad mess of it. I thought I’d learned something from watching you, but . . .”

  “Got the cow, didn’t you?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” I said, “Clay got her. All I did before I gave him his head was to get him mixed up.”

  “That’s ’cause you was rattled when you started out. Man lets hisself get rattled, he’s bound to rattle his horse. Next time, you size up what you want to do and stick to it. ‘Tain’t hard to set a horse’s head, once a man has got his own head set.”

  “I think I can do better on that part next time,” I told him, “but I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to ride Clay any good. I’m not quick enough at figuring out which way he’s going to turn, and I came near being spilled three or four times.”

  “That’s ’cause you’re workin’ at it too hard,” he said. “Just leave yourself foller along easy—the way your best girl does when she’s dancin’ with you.”

  “I haven’t got a best girl,” I told him, “and I don’t know how to dance. Maybe that’s the trouble.”