by Ralph Moody
The ground was as flat as a table, and I was panicky for fear I couldn't get back on Fanny before the cows were all in the alfalfa. Then I remembered how Fred told me to climb on Ned's neck the day before, but first I had to get Fanny's head down. I ran over to the side of the road, yanked up a handful of grass, and held it out toward her nose. When she started to nibble, I dropped it in the road and threw myself on her neck as soon as she put her head down for it.
I took half a dozen more spills before we reached the pasture, but none of them hurt very much. Fanny knew all the tricks there were about making cows do what she wanted them to, and my biggest job was guessing which way she was going to turn, and when. And all the way there were fields of alfalfa or oats along one side of the road, so I could climb back on her neck when she put her head down to eat. Just before we turned into the pasture, I filled the front of my blouse with green oats. I knew I'd fall off some more, and I had to have a way of making Fanny put her head down.
Fanny was much easier to ride than Ned—even if she did spill me once in a while. The only time she ever took a trotting step was when she was slowing down to a walk after cantering. She could canter along as slow as old Ned trotted, or she could go like a streak of greased lightning. I found out that the farther I leaned over her neck, the faster she would go, and maybe I ran her fast lots of times when I didn't need to.
Grace brought my lunch at noon. It was "everything stew" in a lard pail, and biscuits and a cup cake. When she brought it, my cows had wandered nearly to the south end of the pasture, so there were a couple of hills between us and our house. Grace said Mother had told her to herd the cows while I ate, and she wanted me to bend over so she could use my back for a stepping-stone to get on Fanny. I tried to tell her she didn't know how to ride and would fall off, but she got kind of mean and made me do it. She knew a couple of things about my fighting at school and riding on the donkey that I didn't want her to talk about at home. She didn't really say she'd tell if I didn't help her get on Fanny, but she did remind me that she hadn't yet.
I told her about clamping her knees and watching Fanny's ears. I was getting so I could tell when she was going to turn and which way, because she would point her ears that way first. Just as I got the lid off the lard pail, my old spotted cow started toward Carl's oat field at a trot. I yelled to Grace to head her off, and Fanny acted as if she knew exactly what I had said. She went racing off after the old cow as fast as she could go. Grace was almost lying down on Fanny's neck, and her bottom slewed way over to one side. I knew she wasn't squeezing with her knees, and yelled to her. It was too late.
Fanny caught up to the cow, and Grace wasn't watching her ears. How she ever fell as she did, I'll never know. She was clinging to Fanny's neck with both arms and had dropped the reins— I had them tied together so they wouldn't fall if I let go of them. When Fanny turned so quick, it swung Grace out like a gate, and her feet came down between Fanny's forelegs, but she was still holding on with her arms. Fanny kept right on going until she had the old cow headed back, then she stopped and just stood still. By the time I got over there, Grace was standing on the ground—laughing and crying all at the same time.
Grace had heard Willie Aldivote tell me that if you fell off you had to get right back on and try again, else you'd be too scared to try later—and besides the horse would know you were scared and you could never ride that one again. I knew Grace was frightened silly to get back on Fanny, because she was shivering as if it were the middle of winter, but she wasn't going to let me be able to do something she couldn't, so she made me bend over again while she stood on my back. That time she didn't act so smart when I reminded her about pinching her knees and sitting up straight and watching Fanny's ears. I told her her hands weren't very stout yet, just as Fred Aultland told me, and showed her how to wrap the reins around them.
She must have been even more scared than I thought she was. I started her going away from where the cows were, so Fanny wouldn't see some old heifer she thought ought to be chased. As soon as she moved one foot, Grace pulled up hard on the reins and Fanny stopped. I clucked to her, but Grace pulled harder and yelled at me to keep quiet. Her pulling and yelling made Fanny cranky, and she began bobbing her head as she did when she didn't want to plow. Then she started going backward so fast she was almost sitting down. I yelled to Grace to let up on the reins, but I don't think she heard me. She grabbed hold of Fanny's mane with her right hand, so that rein went loose, but she kept on pulling with the other hand. Fanny began going around in a circle backwards, and I didn't know what to tell Grace to do. I guess we were both yelling as loud as we could, and the louder we hollered the faster Fanny went around.
Father always used to say the worst things you expected never happened to you. That's the way it worked with Fanny. I didn't dare tell Grace to slide off for fear Fanny would step on her, and I guess she didn't dare to either. When I thought she was a goner for sure, she fell forward and hugged Fanny around the neck again. As soon as both reins went slack Fanny stopped, and I ran in and got hold of her bridle. Grace was glad enough to call it a day's ride, and even bent over to let me climb on. It would have been easier to shin up Fanny's neck as I usually did, because Grace's back was wobbling around like a patted dog's. After I had the cows rounded up again, she herded them on foot while I finished my dinner. Then she took the bucket and started for home, but when she got to the top of the first hill she yelled back to me, "I can ride better than you can any old day. I can ride her going backwards and you can't." I didn't even bother to answer her.
I was afraid Grace might have ruined Fanny, but she didn't. I only fell off once all afternoon. But I thought I was sunk that once, because I had run all out of green oats to make her put her head down. I had planned to get some more while Grace was watching the cows at noon, but her getting in such a mess with Fanny made me forget all about it. I pulled a handful of dry buffalo grass and held it out to her, but she wouldn't even sniff it. When I had my mind all made up that I was going to have to lead her clear over to the oat patch, she hung her head down and I scrambled on. From that time on, Fanny and I had an understanding between us: if I fell off she'd put her head down for me to get on again, but if I got off by myself I had to get back on the best way I could.
I had a little trouble getting the cows home that night. Leaving the pasture, about half of them streaked off ahead toward Carl's oat field, while the rest dragged along behind. I went kiting after the leaders, and while I was getting them headed off, the others got past me by running up a little valley where I couldn't see them. Fanny and I got them out easy enough, but by that time the first bunch was back into the field a hundred yards or so farther down the road. We raced back and forth between the two herds till Fanny was in a lather, but as soon as I got one herd out, the other was in. Carl's house was beyond a hill, so he couldn't see me, but we were right in plain sight of Aultland's. I kept looking to see if Fred wasn't coming to help me again, but he didn't. At last I woke up to the fact that all I had to do to get them all out was to let one herd stay in till I could drive the other up to join them, then drive them all out together.
We got by Fred's alfalfa all right, and I was proud as I could be that I hadn't had to have any help all day long. I was still being proud of myself when Mrs. Corcoran came out with my quarter. She had a safety pin, too. Instead of giving me the quarter in my hand, she put it into the pocket of my blouse and safety-pinned it in. I left it there till I got clear out to the road, on my way to Aultland's for our milk. Then I took it out and put it in my overall pocket, so I could feel more like a man. But I stopped Fanny in the bottom of the last draw before we got to our house and pinned it back into my blouse pocket. I couldn't be sure Mrs. Corcoran and Mother hadn't cooked the idea up between them.
Fanny was pretty sweaty when I got home that night, and Father didn't like it. He told me I was wearing her down because I hadn't learned to make my head save her heels. I made the excuse about the two different bunches of cows
getting into the oats and how hard I had to ride to get them out, but Father said, "Now wait a minute, Son. Every time you've been in sight all day, you've been playing cowboy, haven't you?"
Of course, I had been, but I didn't know how Father knew. I nodded my head. "Do you want to be a good cowboy like Hi," he asked, "or do you want to play at being a cowboy?"
"Like Hi," I said.
"Then spare your horse. A cowboy with a spent horse is in as bad a spot as if he didn't have any horse at all. Hi wouldn't waste his horse's strength any more than your mother would waste our money—that is, not unless he was showing him off for her benefit. Instead of racing around after every cow that strayed a few yards from the herd, he'd put them all at the back end of the pasture where he could see them from the top of a hill. Then he'd sit down and let his horse graze until some of his cows had wandered far enough away that they might get into the oats. When he did have to go after them, he wouldn't race as you do. He'd go at a nice easy lope till he was past the strays, then bring them back at a slow walk so as to keep them calm and quiet. Always remember, Son, the best boss is the one who bosses the least. Whether it's cattle, or horses, or men; the least government is the best government."
The next day went pretty fine for me. I only tumbled off Fanny once, and I wouldn't have had to that time if I'd grabbed hold of her mane. Once, the day before, I had got off balance and knew I was going to fall, so I let go of the lines and reached my hands out to catch myself on the ground. I came down smack on my face and nearly broke my arms. This time, we were right in the middle of a sandy spot at the bottom of a little valley. I had been studying all morning about the way Hi fell out of his saddle on purpose and somersaulted onto his feet, so I thought I'd try it. As I went off, I ducked my head and bucked up my hind end. It worked, but it worked too well. I went too far over in the air and came down on the seat of my pants with an awful thud. The sand wasn't half so soft as it looked, but at least I'd learned part of the trick of taking a fall.
That morning I herded the cows the way Father had told me Hi would do it. They seemed to know I had learned the trick, and I only had to go after them two or three times. The rest of the morning I kept right on top of a hill where Father could see me from our bean field. But when I saw Grace coming with my dinner I moved down into the little valley with the sandy spot.
I wanted to show her that I could fall off on purpose without getting hurt, and that I was brave enough to do it with Fanny galloping. I thought maybe I could do the somersault trick so I'd come right up on my feet. It didn't work any good at all—There must have been a big old jack rabbit that I didn't see, sitting right at the edge of the sandy patch. I had Fanny going like sixty and had loosened up my knees, all ready to take my dive, when she set her feet and stopped dead still. I went off over her head a mile a minute. If I'd gone a couple of feet farther, I could have grabbed the old rabbit as he raced away.
It happened too fast for me to think anything about any fancy landing, and I made a perfect belly slide. It knocked the wind out of me for a second. When Grace got there I was all right, but I couldn't get any air into my lungs so I could say so. She dropped my dinner bucket and came screaming like she thought I was killed. I don't think Fanny liked her very well after the day before, and she shied away. I was afraid she might run home before I could get breath enough to yell "whoa" at her, but she didn't.
My dinner was a mess. Mother had put the baked beans in the bottom of the bucket, then put a saucer on top of them with my johnnycake and pie on it. When Grace dropped the bucket it all got mixed together—it was lemon pie, too. All the time I was eating, Grace kept telling me that it was her duty to tell Mother about my falling off Fanny. I begged her not to, because I knew Mother wouldn't let me ride any more if Grace ever did tell. At last she said she wouldn't squeal, even if it was going to hurt her conscience, but I'd have to help her get on so she could ride Fanny. She promised she wouldn't haul on the lines.
Grace got on all right, but I kept hold of the reins till I saw she was sitting right and had her knees squeezed in good and tight. Then I held Fanny's bridle and talked to her easy till Grace got the Lines wrapped around both hands. Grace was all right as long as I had hold, but when I let go she leaned forward and grabbed for Fanny's mane. The minute she leaned forward Fanny started to canter. Grace squealed, and I hollered after her to sit up straight and keep the reins tighter, but not to haul on them. She did sit up, but she hauled on the lines.
I don't know whether Fanny was trying to be mean, or Whether she didn't know what Grace wanted her to do—and I don't think Grace knew herself. Anyway, she started trotting right up the little valley. Grace went bouncing up and down on her back like a marble dropped on a stone walk. It wouldn't have been so bad if she had just come down in the same place every time, but sometimes she was clear up on Fanny's withers, and sometimes pretty near back to her tail. First she'd lose her balance one way, then she'd grab a handful of mane and pull herself half off the other side. Why she never fell clear off I'll never know, but she didn't. At last she got worked way up on Fanny's neck, and slipped over sideways so far that she was just hanging by her hands and one knee. Then Fanny stopped and let me catch up to them. Even at that, Grace yelled back to me when she got to the top of the hill with my dinner bucket, "I guess I showed you who could ride best. You fell off and I didn't."
Grace brought my dinner every noon, and she always had something hurting her conscience enough so that she'd have to tell Mother if I didn't let her ride Fanny. After a while I just let her do it anyway, and she got so she could do pretty well, but she was always a sissy, because when she found she was going to fall she'd grab Fanny around the neck. After a day or so Fanny'd stop as soon as Grace started hugging her.
I got so I could tumble into the sandy spot and hardly get hurt at all. And a few times I went clear over and came up on my feet like Hi. I didn't have any trouble with the cows after the first week. When June came, the days were hotter and I didn't have enough to do for it to be interesting any more. Mrs. Corcoran stopped hollering so much about my running the cows or bringing them in too early, but she still pinned my quarter into my blouse pocket every night, and I always took it out and put it in my overall pocket till I was nearly home.
10
My Friend Two Dog
WHEN I got in from herding one evening early in June, there were two scrawny, jug-headed buckskins tied to an old rickety spring wagon in our yard. I could see them from half a mile up the road, and came boiling home a lot faster than Father liked me to. Nobody was in sight, so we tore right for the barn. Fanny and I had a system at the barn. If I stayed on she had to go through the doorway slow or I'd get scraped off. But she always liked to pop right in quick, so I'd slide way back on her rump and slip off over her tail at the last second. I'd got so I could do it and land on my feet most every night—without spilling the can of milk I always brought from Aultland's.
I had to time it just right, and that night I was thinking so much about who might be in the house that I must have been a little careless. Anyway, I hadn't slid back far enough on Fanny's rump, so when I ooched to go off over her tail I didn't go all the way, and crashed into the header of the barn door. When I woke up I didn't have any idea where in the world I was for about a minute. I was lying on a pile of hay and an old man with a long white beard and a battered ten-gallon felt hat was looking down at me from squinty blue eyes that were sunk way back in his head. I shut my eyes again quick, and heard him say to somebody else, "Ain't hurt a bit, ain't hurt a bit. 'Fraid the little papoose mighta brained hisself."
I remembered what had happened then, and knew where I was. The first thing I thought about was the milk, because Mother had been giving me heck every time I spilled some of it, so I said, "Did I spill the milk?"
The old man laughed and laughed, then he said, "No Bucko, you didn't spill scarcely none of it. Two Dog ketched it soon as ever it lit."
I sat up then and looked around to see who Two Dog
was. He was a wizened old, old Indian, and his face was so wrinkled it looked like a baked apple that's been left over till it's all dried out. His hair wasn't braided like the Indians I'd seen in books, but hung down in scraggly strings to his shoulders, and he had a faded derby hat balanced square on the top of his head. His coat was faded black, too, and the back of it was long and rounded, like the minister's back in East Rochester. He had on a tight pair of bright blue pants, and white moccasins with lots of red beads on them. He just looked at me without changing his face a bit. Then he grunted and went over and sat down with his back against the side of the barn.
I had just got on my feet when Father came out to see why I hadn't brought in the milk. I must have had quite a bump on my head, because it was the first thing he saw, and asked me what kind of tricks I'd been up to now. I didn't get a chance to tell him, because the old man with the whiskers told him first. He said, "Me and Two Dog was a-sittin' here agin the barn havin' a smoke when this little coyote come a-ridin' in. The mare spooked and hightailed into the barn like a scairt prairie dog into his hole. The papoose, he didn't have a chance and bunged his head agin the barn. Ain't hurt a mite, though; not a broke bone anywheres." He took hold of my arm and worked it up and down like a pump handle to show Father.
Father said for me to come to the house and get cleaned up for supper. On the way in he told me the old man was Mr. Thompson, and that he claimed to have had his camp site in 1840 right where our house was now. While I was getting washed I asked him about Two Dog, because he was the first Indian I had seen close to. Father said he didn't know much about him, but he had heard that he was a Blackfoot, and that he and Mr. Thompson had lived together up in the foothills since long before anybody could remember.