Three years later, Griffith released a less controversial extravaganza, Intolerance, a film that wove together four different stories of man’s inhumanity throughout history. In the final crosscut race sequence, horses and chariots storm through ancient Babylon. While perhaps not as electrifying as the Klan sequence in The Birth of a Nation, this sequence is nevertheless an impressive example of early equine film action requiring sophisticated staging.
Ku Klux Klansmen gallop down a road in The Birth of a Nation (1915); among the actors is future Western director John Ford.
The frightening image of the hooded Klansman and horse drew audiences to see The Birth of a Nation.
The First Movie Cowboy
The Great Train Robbery did more than establish the popularity of the Western. It also launched the career of an unlikely movie cowboy, Gilbert Max Anderson (née Aronson), who came to be known as Broncho (later “Bronco”) Billy Anderson.
A former janitor at Edison’s New Jersey studio, Anderson began his movie cowboy career with a lie. When asked by director Edwin S. Porter if he could ride, Anderson reportedly replied, “I was born in the saddle.” The Arkansas-born Anderson had never been on a horse in his life and quickly proved it by falling off the mount he had been assigned for the shoot. The ambitious Anderson managed to convince Porter to cast him in several nonriding roles instead. Since close-ups were rare in early films, variously costumed actors could easily play multiple parts.
The financial success of The Great Train Robbery, rather than any great desire to work with horses, motivated Anderson to continue his career as a screen cowboy. Horses were merely a necessary part of the business of making Westerns, and he clearly understood their value in adding bankable excitement to a scene.
In 1907, Anderson and a partner started the Chicago-based Essanay Studios and began producing Westerns. The company eventually moved to California to capitalize on the scenic locations and agreeable weather. Pioneering the portrayal of a complex hero, both good and bad, Anderson starred in his own films as Broncho Billy. Although he created a considerable career for himself on horseback, the heavy-set actor never developed great riding skills and never became affiliated with a particular horse. He also had no illusions about his equestrian expertise—or that of his fellow thespians—and was the first actor to employ stunt doubles for the hard falls.
One spring day in 1911, a real cowboy, Jack Montgomery, stumbled upon a Broncho Billy production in northern California’s rugged Niles Canyon. Montgomery, along with fourteen other cowhands looking for work, rode over a ridge to watch Anderson shooting a Western in the valley below. Recognizing a great opportunity for capturing genuine horse action, Anderson offered Montgomery and his saddle pals a good day’s pay for riding in the action sequences. Montgomery rode his own ranch horse, a blue roan gelding named Cowboy, in a number of shots until Anderson explained that he needed a stuntman to double an actor in a scene of a horse and rider falling. An excellent horseman, the unsuspecting Montgomery was selected for the honor.
Montgomery quickly discovered Anderson’s attitude toward movie horses. Anderson’s crew rigged a big bay with a crude version of the tripping device known as a Running W, a contraption designed to pull the horse’s front feet out from under him at a full gallop. Piano wire attached to leather hobbles on the horse’s fetlocks was threaded through a ring on his cinch and staked to a buried post. Montgomery was instructed to bail off the horse a split second before the animal was yanked to the ground. Both horse and rider miraculously endured the brutal incident without apparent injury, but Montgomery, who went on to become a top Hollywood stuntman and double for the great cowboy star Tom Mix, found the horse’s treatment disturbing.
In his later films, Anderson continued to use horses as dramatic elements, increasing his popularity with movie audiences who expected ever greater thrills. His flamboyant theatrics are typified in his 1919 Western The Son-of-a-Gun. In one outrageous sequence, he pulls his horse, a rangy sorrel, into a rear before charging into a saloon, guns blazing. Having made his grand entrance, the chunky cowboy dismounts and, with a hearty slap on the rump, sends his trusty steed back out through the barroom doors. Eventually copied to the point of becoming a movie cliché, this wild entrance was new in 1919; such novel theatrics were essential to Broncho Billy’s appeal.
After contributing five hundred films to the Western genre, Anderson turned his businesslike eye to comedies, working with Charlie Chaplin and Laurel and Hardy in subsequent productions. His on-screen persona of Broncho Billy eventually earned Anderson a special Academy Award for being the first cowboy star. More important, Broncho Billy blazed the trail for future cowboy stars—and their horses.
The first real cowboy to become a stuntman, Jack Montgomery is aboard his Mexican horse Chapo in this photo from 1925, the year Rudolph Valentino rode the same horse in The Eagle.
2. A Horse and His Man
“A cowboy is a man with guts and a horse.”
—Attributed to Will James
The Majestic Silver King and Fred Thomson
Since his auspicious debut in the birth of cinema, the movie horse has enjoyed a long canter in the limelight. During the silent film era, 1893–1930, the horse achieved a type of stardom that seems unbelievable today. Even more remarkable, his star power endured for decades. Spurring that rise was the creation of the cowboy-horse partnership. The right man paired with the right horse could make both idols on the silver screen. For some Western fans, the horse was the bigger box-office attraction. Roy Rogers, the great cowboy star of the 1940s and 1950s, who became identified with his palomino stallion, once quipped, “I have no illusions about my popularity. Just as many fans are as interested in seeing Trigger as they are in seeing me.”
Long before Roy Rogers and Trigger became celebrity icons, however, a dour Western actor and his red-and-white pinto pony, William S. Hart and Fritz, established the cowboy-horse partnership in a series of gritty silent films. Following on their heels was a new breed of Western stars—real cowboys such as Tom Mix and Ken Maynard. One horse, a charismatic stallion named Rex, bucked the formula and fought his way to the top alone.
The inimitable Fritz and Hart are seen in the California Desert.
The First Partnership
Like his predecessor, Broncho Billy, William S. Hart hailed from the East and would establish a screen persona as a “good/bad man.” The similarities stop there, however, as Hart had a genuine love of the West and horses. He had spent much of his childhood, in the late 1800s, traveling with his miller father and observing the ways of the disappearing Old West. Living for a time in the Dakotas, he learned good horsemanship and a respect of nature from his Sioux playmates. These childhood experiences would translate into an almost fanatical quest for realism in his films and result in the depiction of interdependent friendship between man and horse.
Before making his first movie, however, Hart spent two decades on the stage, in New York and London, and earned renown as a dramatic actor. His work in two plays about the West, The Squaw Man and The Virginian, helped create his film persona.
Hart’s early movie horse, Midnight—which the star described in My Life East and West as “a superb coal-black animal that weighed about 1200 pounds”—was considered hard to handle. Hart got along with the horse and tried to buy him for $150, a large sum in 1914. He belonged to the traveling Miller Brothers 101 Ranch Wild West Show, which during its off-season leased stock to the New York Motion Picture Company’s California production arm. When Joe Miller refused to sell the horse, Midnight hit the road with the 101 Show, and Hart began searching for another mount. Hart soon found himself drawn to a small pinto named Fritz, who was to become the equine half of the first screen cowboy-horse buddy relationship.
Ann Little began her career in Broncho Billy Anderson serials. She appeared in a series of Westerns for Universal, starting in 1915. She displays her cowgirl skills in this photo circa 1913–15.
Enter Fritz
A Sioux
chief named Lone Bear reportedly brought Fritz to California in 1911. Hart first set eyes on the red-and-white gelding at Inceville, producer Thomas Ince’s movie ranch. Fritz was practicing his rear with actress Ann Little aboard and almost came down on Hart’s head. Despite the close call, Hart was smitten—not with Ann but with Fritz.
Though Fritz was small, weighing only about 1,000 pounds and standing just over 14-hands high, Hart saw something special in the little horse. In their first film together, the sturdy pinto impressed the actor with his stamina. The script called for Fritz to carry the 6-foot Hart and another actor, who with their guns and the heavy stock saddle must have weighed close to 400 pounds, for hours. The action culminated in Hart’s “falling” Fritz and then using him for a shield in a gunfight. The actor related in his autobiography that the brave but weary little horse gave him a thankful look that “plainly said: ‘Say, Mister, I sure was glad when you give me that fall.’”
Fritz apparently didn’t mind falling, as Hart regularly threw the pinto from a dead run, using a technique that has been traced back to the armies of Alexander the Great. In an era when tripping devices were commonly used in the movies, Fritz was one of the first trained falling horses.
Because of his markings, Fritz could not be doubled, so he performed every stunt himself—including jumping though windows and fire—except one. In Fritz’s last film, The Singer Jim McKee (1924), an elaborate replica of the pinto was painstakingly constructed (at the then-huge cost of $2,000) to take his place in a fall from a cliff into a deep gorge—a deadly drop of about 150 feet. Hart galloped Fritz to the edge of the cliff, then pulled him into a fall. Once the pinto was safely removed from the scene, the mechanical horse was brought in and held upright with piano wire for Hart to mount. When the wires were cut, Hart and the dummy tumbled over the precipice. While Hart was badly shaken by the fall, Fritz would not have survived it without serious injuries. The final edited sequence proved so convincing that the board of censors, headed by William Hays, president of the newly established Motion Pictures Producers and Distributors of America, summoned Hart to New York, certain he had endangered a live horse. Once he explained how the astonishing illusion had been accomplished, the censors were placated, but when the film was released, it still caused a flood of mail from Fritz’s concerned fans.
William S. Hart discovered his equine partner Fritz at Thomas Ince’s movie ranch, Inceville, circa 1915.
From 1916–1918, William S. Hart’s movie ranch was on the Santa Monica site of the former Inceville.
The Greatest All-Around Horse
Hart adored Fritz, whom he described as “the greatest all-around horse that ever lived.” Two of Hart’s films, The Narrow Trail (1917) and Pinto Ben (1924), were made as tributes to the pinto. Hart even ghostwrote a book, Told Under a White Oak, published in 1922 and “authored” by Fritz. The charming book tells Fritz’s version of all the hard stunts he had performed during his career.
The actor was determined to buy Fritz, but his owner, Thomas Ince, refused to sell, figuring he could keep Hart under contract using the pinto as leverage. Hart outfoxed Ince, however, and made his purchase of Fritz a condition of a contract negotiation, then later withheld him from fifteen films to leverage a higher salary. Since early films were made quickly, Fritz was only out of the public eye for about two years. Fans missed their favorite movie horse, but his absence made his return, in 1919’s Sand, all the sweeter.
For all his sturdiness and willingness, Fritz had a temperamental streak. One of his quirks was his attachment to Cactus Kate, a feisty mare used in bucking scenes. Hart was obliged to buy the mare to keep his costar happy. On one particular day during the filming of Travelin’ On (1921), Kate had been left at the studio barn with another stablemate, a giant mule named Lisbeth. Fritz had several difficult scenes with a monkey and refused to work until the mare was brought to the set. With Kate watching from the wings, the shooting proceeded beautifully until a terrible bellowing and thundering of hooves interrupted work. Lisbeth had broken out of her corral and galloped a mile through traffic to join her friends.
Fritz was retired to Hart’s ranch in Newhall, California (now a museum), in 1924 and thus did not appear in Hart’s last film, Tumbleweeds (1925). When the horse died at age thirty-one in 1938, Hart had him buried on the ranch with a huge stone marker that still reads, “Wm. S. Hart’s Pinto Pony Fritz—A Loyal Comrade.” In a monologue added to the 1939 rerelease of Tumbleweeds, the Shakespearean-trained actor gave a heartfelt speech honoring his lost horse.
Audiences had loved Fritz almost as much as Hart had, and savvy filmmakers were on to a winning combination. By the time Fritz made his last fall, the long parade of cowboy-horse screen partnerships had begun.
Fritz brings William S. Hart luck as he played a dice game between takes on the location of Riddle Gawne (Aircraft, 1918).
Ride ’Em Cowboys
With the Old West disappearing and the Western film flourishing, a new breed of actor rode onto the scene—literally. Many expert horsemen looking for ranch work at the turn of the century wound up displaying their skills in the traveling Wild West shows. As the popularity of these shows began to wane in the early 1910s, a number of cowboy performers moved on to the picture business. Rodeo stars were also lured to Hollywood by the promise of greater fame and fortune—or at least a steady paycheck doing stunt work. College athletes traded their track shoes for cowboy boots to cash in on the craze for hard-riding heroes. Thespians who weren’t born in the saddle quickly took riding lessons to get in the game, and playing cowboys catapulted a few actors to wider movie stardom. The first big Western star after William S. Hart, Tom Mix, was, however, a genuine cowboy.
Tom Mix and Tony
Tom Mix would come to be considered—by his cowboy contemporaries as well as by many modern film buffs—the best horseman of all the movie cowboys. Mix, born in Pennsylvania in 1880, learned horsemanship from his father, a stable master. Young Tom became an excellent rider. He also exhibited a theatrical flair and created his own cowboy suit when he was just twelve years old.
At eighteen, Mix joined the army for a three-year stint. He reenlisted but went AWOL a year later when he got married. He worked a variety of jobs, including wrangler, until he joined up with the Miller Brothers 101 Ranch Wild West Show in 1906. Mix became one of their top performers. Four years later, he hooked up with the Selig Polyscope Company to make Western movies. A Selig press release for the 1911 film Saved by the Pony Express stated: “The mounting and riding at full gallop of Western horses, and of an unbroken bronco by Tom Mix, are some of the most thrilling feats of horsemanship ever exhibited in a motion picture.”
Mix rode many horses in the 170 films he made for Selig. His first one, a stout brown gelding, looked like a real ranch horse and obviously derived his unusual name, .45, from the brand on his left hindquarters. Mix’s avowed favorite movie mount was his own horse, Old Blue, a tough little roan with two hind socks and a long dished face, typical of Arabian breeding. (It is not known whether this sturdy little gelding actually had Arabian blood.) Old Blue was so loved by Mix that when the horse had to be put down after breaking a leg in his corral at age twenty-two, the star was bereft. He had the roan buried at his ranch, Mixville, in Edendale, California, where many of the actor’s Westerns were filmed. Ever faithful to “the best horse I ever rode,” Mix placed a wreath on Old Blue’s grave every Decoration Day.
Tom Mix and his horse .45.
Tom Mix and his most beloved horse, Old Blue, as is clear from his heartfelt inscription on the photo.
By 1920, Mix was challenging William S. Hart for the cowboy-hat crown. The former’s early penchant for clothes had evolved into a flamboyant style, the antithesis of Hart’s gritty, authentic look. Mix’s movie persona was lighthearted and imbued with clever tongue-in-cheek humor. Audiences responded enthusiastically to Mix, but still something was missing—an equine sidekick as flashy as the man who rode him.
Enter Tony, “the Wonde
r Horse” Many stories have been circulated about Tony’s origins. They usually involve Tony’s being noticed as a colt, following his mother as she hauls a vegetable cart. Inevitably, Mix buys Tony for $10 or $12. The foggy details of the colt’s metamorphosis into the Wonder Horse imply that Mix himself trained Tony. However, the most convincing version of how Tony arrived in the actor’s life comes from Mix’s third wife, Olive Stokes. She claimed to have spotted the colt one day in 1914, as he followed a chicken cart being pulled by his dam along Glendale Boulevard near downtown Los Angeles. She contacted Pat Chrisman, Mix’s horse trainer, who lived a few blocks away. He liked what he saw and paid the cart driver $14 for the future Wonder Horse. Mix bought Tony from Chrisman in 1917 for a reported $600. Although the actor boasted that Tony did not have to be trained, just shown what to do, Chrisman taught Tony the many tricks that made him famous.
Tony appeared with Mix in a 1917 Selig film, The Heart of Texas Ryan, when the horse was three years old; it was not until Old Blue’s demise in 1919, however, that the actor began using Tony as his main movie mount. A sorrel with a long blaze and snip and two hind stockings, Tony appears to have been an American Quarter Horse type. He was highly intelligent and, like his master, had a quirky personality. According to director George Marshall: “Tom was temperamental, but it ran in streaks. Oddly enough, the horse, Tony, was very much like his owner. Pat Chrisman would rehearse him in some tricks for a picture and he would perform beautifully, but when it came time to shoot—nothing! He could be whipped, pulled, jerked, have bits changed, but still no performance. Come out the next morning and he would run through the whole scene with barely a rehearsal. Then he’d look at you as much to say: ‘How do you like that? Yesterday I didn’t feel like working.’”
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