Spirit of the Horse

by William Shatner

  “And yet you’re backing him?”

  “And yet I’m backing of him.”

  “This young Peyton’s mare can’t be worse?” said the younger man, interrogatively.

  “That mare, it’s my belief, would be fancied for the Grand National if she was entered, and some of the swells saw ’er. She’s a real good ’un!” replied the man with the collar.

  “I see. You’ve got at her jockey. You’re an artful one, you are.”

  As the jockey to whom they alluded, I was naturally much interested.

  “No, I ain’t done that, neither. He’s a gentleman, and it’s no use talkin’ to such as ’im. They ain’t got the sense to take up a good thing when they see it—though, for the matter o’ that, most of the perfessionals is as bad as the gentlemen. All’s fair in love and war,” says I; “and this ’ere’s war.”

  “Does Blankney know how bad his horse is?”

  “No, bless yer! That ain’t Phil Kelly’s game.” (Kelly was, I knew, the man who had charge of my opponent’s horse.)

  “Well, then, just explain, will you; for I can’t see.”

  From the recesses of his garment the elder man pulled out a short stick about fifteen inches in length, at the end of which was a loop of string; and from another pocket he produced a small paper parcel.

  “D’yer know what that is? That’s a ‘twitch.’ D’yer know what that is? That’s medicine. I love this ’ere young feller’s mare so much I’m a-goin’ to give it some nicey med’cine myself; and this is the right stuff. I’ve been up to the ’ouse to-day, and can find my way into the stable to-night when it’s all quiet. Just slip this loop over ’er lip, and she’ll open ’er mouth. Down goes the pill, and as it goes down the money goes into my pocket. Them officer fellers and their friends have been backing Blankney’s ’orse; but Phil Kelly will take care that they hear at the last moment that he’s no good. Then they’ll rush to lay odds on the mare—and the mare won’t win.”

  They laughed, and nudged each other in the side, and I felt a mighty temptation to rush into the room and nudge their heads with my fist. Little Lady’s delicate lips, which Nellie had so often petted, to be desecrated by the touch of such villains as these!

  While struggling to restrain myself a hand was laid on my shoulders, and, turning round, I saw Smithers. We proceeded to the stable; and I hastily recounted to him what had happened, and what I had heard, as he examined the mare by the aid of a bull’s-eye lantern. He passed his hand very carefully over her, whilst I looked on with anxious eyes.

  “She’s knocked a bit of skin off here, you see.” He pointed to a place a little below her knee, and drawing a small box from his pocket, anointed the leg. “But she’s all right. All right, ain’t you, old lady?” he said, patting her; and his cheerful tone convinced me that he was satisfied. “We’ll lead her home. I’ll go with you, sir; and it’s easy to take means to prevent any games to-night.”

  When we reached home the doctor was there, and pronounced that, with the exception of a sprained ankle, Nellie had sustained no injury.

  Rejoicing exceedingly, we proceeded to the stable; Heathfield, who heard my story, and who was delighted at the prospect of some fun, asking permission to accompany us.

  “Collars” had doubtless surveyed the premises carefully, for he arrived about eleven o’clock, and clambered quietly and skilfully into the hayloft above the stable, after convincing himself that all was quiet inside. He opened the trap-door, and down came a foot and leg, feeling about to find a resting-place on the partition which divided Little Lady’s loose box from the other stalls. Bertie and I took hold of the leg, and assisted him down, to his intense astonishment; while Heathfield and a groom gave chase to, and ultimately captured his friend, the watcher on the threshold.

  * * *

  “If I’m well enough to do anything I’m well enough to lie on the sofa; and there’s really no difference between a sofa and an easy-chair—if my foot is resting—and I’m sure the carriage is easier than any chair; and it can’t matter about my foot being an inch or two higher or lower—and as for shaking, that’s all nonsense. It’s very unkind indeed of you not to want to take me; and if you won’t, directly you’ve gone I’ll get up, and walk about, and stamp!”

  Thus Nellie, in answer to advice that she should remain at home. How it ended may easily be guessed; and though we tried to be dignified, as we drove along, to punish her for her wilfulness, her pathetic little expressions of sorrow that she should “fall down, and hurt herself, and be such a trouble to everybody,” and child-like assurances that she would “not do it again,” soon made us smile, and forget our half-pretended displeasure. So with the aunt to take care of her, in case Bertie and I were insufficient, we reached the course.

  The first three races were run and then the card said:—

  3•15 Match, £120 a side, over the Steeple-chase Course, about three miles and a half.

  1.  Mr Blankney, 14th Dragoons, ch. h. Jibboom, 5 years, 11 st. 7 lb., rose, black and gold cap.

  2.  Mr Peyton, b. m. Little Lady, 6 years, 11 st., sky-blue, white cap.

  Blankney was sitting on the regimental drag, arrayed in immaculate boots and breeches, and, after the necessary weighing ceremony had been gone through he mounted the great Jibboom, which Phil Kelly had been leading about: the latter gentleman had a rather anxious look on his face; but Blankney evidently thought he was on a good one, and nodded confidently to his friends on the drag as he lurched down the course.

  Little Lady was brought up to me, Smithers being in close attendance.

  “I shall be so glad, if you win,” Nellie found opportunity to whisper.

  “What will you give me?” I greedily inquire.

  “Anything you ask me,” is the reply; and my heart beats high as, having thrown off my light wrapper and mounted, Little Lady bounds down the course, and glides easily over the hurdle in front of the stand.

  Bertie and Smithers were waiting at the starting-post; and, having shaken hands with Blankney, to whom Bertie introduced me, I went apart to exchange the last few sentences with my friends.

  Bertie is a trifle pale, but confident; and Smithers seems to have a large supply of the latter quality. In however high esteem we hold our own opinions, we are glad of professional advice when it comes to the push; and I seek instructions.

  “No, sir, don’t you wait on him. Go away as hard as you can directly the flag drops. I don’t like the look of that chestnut’s legs—or, rather, I do like the look of them for our sakes. Go away as hard as ever you can; but take it easy at the fences; and, excuse me, sir, but just let the mare have her head when she jumps, and she’ll be all right. People talk about ‘lifting horses at their fences:’ I only knew one man who could do it, and he made mistakes.”

  I nod; smiling as cheerfully as anxiety will permit me. The flag falls, and Little Lady skims over the ground, the heavy chestnut thundering away behind.

  Over the first fence—a hedge—and then across a ploughed field; rather hard going, but not nearly so bad as I expected it would have been: the mare moving beautifully. Just as I reach the second fence a boy rushes across the course, baulking us; and before I can set her going again Jibboom has come up level, and is over into the grass beyond a second before us; but I shoot past and again take up the running. Before us are some posts and rails—rather nasty ones; the mare tops them, and the chestnut hits them hard with all four legs. Over more grass; and in front, flanked on either side by a crowd of white faces, is the water-jump. I catch hold of her head and steady her; and then, she rises, flies through the air, and lands lightly on the other side. A few seconds after I hear a heavy splash; but when, after jumping the hurdle into the course, I glance over my shoulder, the chestnut is still pounding away behind. As I skim along past the stand the first time round and the line of carriages opposite, I catch sight of a waving white handkerchief: it is Nellie; and my confused glimpse imperfectly reveals Bertie and Smithers standing on the box of the carri
age.

  I had seen visions of a finish, in which a certain person clad in a light-blue jacket had shot ahead just in the nick of time, and landed the race by consummate jockeyship after a neck-and-neck struggle for the last quarter of a mile. This did not happen, however, for, as I afterwards learned, the chestnut refused a fence before he had gone very far, and, having at last been got over, came to grief at the posts and rails the second time round. Little Lady cantered in alone; Blankney strolling up some time afterwards.

  There is no need to make record of Bertie’s delight at the success. We dined next day at the mess of the 14th, Blankney and his brethren were excessively friendly, and seemed pleased and satisfied; as most assuredly were we. Blankney opines that he went rather too fast at the timber; but a conviction seemed to be gaining ground towards the close of the evening that he had not gone fast enough at any period of the race.

  And for Nellie? She kept her promise, and granted my request; and very soon after the ankle was well we required the services of other horses—grey ones!

  LITTLE SURE SHOT

  Here’s a little change of pace that draws on many of the ideas we’ve been talking about, plus this one: unlike some other sports and physical activities riding has always been enjoyed by both sexes equally. For a while, it was a woman who showed the public and her peers “how it’s done.”

  Little Sure Shot was born Phoebe Ann Mosey on August 13, 1860, in a cabin near what is now Willowdell, Ohio. At the age of eight, she began hunting to feed her widowed mother and siblings. She met and married marksman Frank Butler in 1882 and, together, they joined Buffalo Bill’s Wild West attraction three years later.

  She was Annie Oakley, one of the most famous and celebrated entertainers of the nineteenth century. Her shooting was so precise she earned the nickname “Little Sure Shot,” and I mention her in a book about horses because, boy howdy, in addition to being able to shoot a cigarette from her husband’s mouth, that five-foot-tall Ohioan could really ride.

  Some of her exploits have taken on the proportions of myth, specifically her ability to hit targets while riding sidesaddle and jumping a fence; or to stand on the back of the horse and take out a series of targets.

  No, I have not done these. I haven’t even tried. I haven’t even been tempted to try. But that doesn’t change the fact that both are possible.

  Riding sidesaddle, she would have had one foot in a stirrup, with the other leg hooked around sort of a cloth, so she was maintaining her balance that way. In fact, that would have been the only way, because they thought it was unladylike for her to ride with spread legs. Mind you, sidesaddle is a very, very difficult balance but not impossible. And if you trained, got yourself used to it—and a lot of ladies did, since that was the customary way to ride—then you could also shoot a rifle.

  Yes—even if you were jumping at the same time.

  Every horse takes power strides, three strides before the jump, and in the rhythm of that jump, when you come to the top of the jump, there’s a moment of peace and quiet. At the very apex there’s a momentary hesitation in the forces of nature: the jump forces that propelled you forward and up are equal, and the forces that are bringing you over and down are not yet assumed. At that instant, everything is briefly but absolutely still. You, the horse, the target …

  Everything.

  Just before reaching the top of that arc, she would bring the rifle up, and she would have no problem hitting a target in that fleeting moment of calm and balance. Timed with almost supernatural perfection. For a young lady whose survival had depended on hitting small, moving targets for dinner, those skills were in muscle memory. It was a matter of constant practice to sharpen them.

  That practice-makes-perfect idea is also true when you’re standing on horseback, though the mechanics are somewhat different. It’s no longer just a matter of timing. Now you’re having to use your legs, your knees, your ankles, your thighs, your hips—essentially employing every part of you that flexes in order to maintain your shoulders at a steady rate and position. Imagine how important the soles of your feet become, since those are the antennae that inform the rest of your body how to countermove. It’s not like standing on shifting beach sands or a train. It’s more like standing on the roof of a car … and trying to shoot a playing card that’s being flipped in the air, or a lighted candlewick.

  Make no mistake, this was an amazing woman, deservedly one of the most admired Americans of her age.

  Her employer was also pretty impressive, a man whose real-life exploits have been overshadowed by a pulp-fiction legend: William F. Cody.

  The Life of Hon. William F. Cody, Known as Buffalo Bill, The Famous Hunter, Scout and Guide, an Autobiography

  by WILLIAM F. CODY (1879)

  William F. “Buffalo Bill” Cody was a showman. In print, in a stage show, and in his Wild West show—this wonderful horseman and hero presented only the legend the public craved, not the less operatic hero he truly was. Thus, we have no idea how many of his “autobiographical” escapades were even remotely true.

  Like this one:

  “Yes, he’s a California horse; he was captured there wild,” replied father.

  The exhibition of horsemanship given by Billings on this occasion was really wonderful, and was the most skillful and daring feat of the kind that I ever witnessed. The remainder of the evening was spent around the camp, and Horace, who remained there, entertained us with several interesting chapters of his experiences.

  Next morning he walked over to his own camp, but soon returned, mounted on a beautiful horse, with a handsome saddle, bridle and lariat. I thought he was a magnificent looking man. I envied his appearance, and my ambition just then was to become as skillful a horseman as he was. He had rigged himself out in his best style in order to make a good impression on his uncle at Weston, whither father and I accompanied him on horseback.

  He was cordially received by Uncle Elijah, who paid him every possible attention, and gave me a handsome saddle and bridle for my pony, and in the evening when we rode out to the farm to see my mother and sisters, I started ahead to show them my present, as well as to tell them who was coming. They were delighted to see the long-lost Horace, and invited him to remain with us. When we returned to camp next day, Horace settled up with the proprietor of the horses, having concluded to make his home with us for that summer at least.

  Father employed him in cutting house logs and building houses, but this work not being adapted to his tastes, he soon gave it up, and obtained government employment in catching United States horses. During the previous spring the government herd had stampeded from Fort Leavenworth, and between two and three hundred of the horses were running at large over the Kansas prairies, and had become quite wild. A reward of ten dollars was offered for every one of the horses that was captured and delivered to the quartermaster at Fort Leavenworth. This kind of work of course just suited the roaming disposition of Billings, especially as it was similar to that in which he had been engaged in California. The horses had to be caught with a lasso, with which he was very expert. He borrowed Little Gray, who was fleet enough for the wildest of the runaways, and then he at once began his horse hunting.

  Everything that he did, I wanted to do. He was a sort of hero in my eyes, and I wished to follow in his footsteps. At my request and with father’s consent, he took me with him, and many a wild and perilous chase he led me over the prairie. I made rapid advances in the art of horsemanship, for I could have had no better teacher than Horace Billings. He also taught me how to throw the lasso, which, though it was a difficult thing to learn, I finally became quite skillful in.

  Whenever Horace caught one of the horses which acted obstinately, and would not be led, he immediately threw him to the ground, put a saddle and bridle on him, and gave me Little Gray to take care of. He would then mount the captive horse and ride him into Fort Leavenworth. I spent two months with Horace in this way, until at last no more of the horses were to be found. By this time I had become a
remarkably good rider for a youth, and had brought both of my ponies under easy control.

  Horace returned to assist father in hauling logs, which were being used in building a dwelling for the family who had moved over from Missouri. One day a team did not work to suit him, and he gave the horses a cruel beating. This greatly displeased father, who took him to task for it. Horace’s anger flew up in a moment; throwing down the lines he hurried to the house, and began packing up his traps. That same day he hired out to a Mormon train, and bidding us all good-bye started for Salt Lake, driving six yokes of oxen.

  * * *

  As a storm was coming up it was quite dark, and the scouts feared that they would lose the way; besides it was a dangerous ride, as a large party of Indians were known to be camped on Walnut Creek, on the direct road to Fort Hays. It was evident that Curtis was trying to induce me to volunteer. I made some evasive answer to Curtis, for I did not care to volunteer after my long day’s ride. But Curtis did not let the matter drop. Said he:

  “I wish, Bill, that you were not so tired by your chase of to-day, for you know the country better than the rest of the boys, and I am certain that you could go through.”

  “As far as the ride to Fort Hays is concerned, that alone would matter but little to me,” I said, “but it is a risky piece of work just now, as the country is full of hostile Indians; still if no other scout is willing to volunteer, I will chance it. I’ll go, provided I am furnished with a good horse. I am tired of being chased on a government mule by Indians.” At this Captain Nolan, who had been listening to our conversation, said:

  “Bill, you may have the best horse in my company. You can take your choice if you will carry these dispatches. Although it is against regulations to dismount an enlisted man, I have no hesitancy in such a case of urgent necessity as this is, in telling you that you may have any horse you may wish.”