This article is found on page 20 in the Spring 2005 issue. Back about 1946 or '47, Grandpa always had a bunch of ponies around his ranch that us kids could ride, whether working cattle or just playing cowboys and Indians. As I refer to "ponies," I am not meaning Shetland types but saddle ponies standing 14 to 16 hands and weighing at least 850 pounds. These ponies were usually wild mustangs bought on the reservation at round-up auctions or from individual Indians that ran and rounded up wild horses.
Grandpa would ride these broncs for about 30 days using a good set of spurs and a large quirt, and he'd consider them broke after that. He'd turn them into his remuda for us kids to ride. Of course, we each claimed one particular animal as our own and tended to ride that animal exclusively.
I picked a red roan mare he called Gerty. She had a bald face, four white stockings and a black mane and tail. The first time I saw her she was tied hard and fast to a Shorthorn bull, as she was being trained to work a rope on cattle.
Grandpa's training methods were some different from Monty Milk Toast of today, but they got rapid positive results that lasted. For instance, to get a pony to work a rope, you simply tightened the center-fire cinch real snug, and roped a bull in the large corral, tying the rope so that it didn't choke the bovine. His ropes were always tied hard and fast to the saddle horn. Then, he had the critters live together in this fashion 24 hours a day for about a week or two.
The results were amazing. The pony learned to never ever take his eye off the bull, for if he did he would probably get jerked off his feet and drug around through the manure for a while. His horses quickly learned it did no good to throw a fit when the rope got between their hind legs or under their tails. The pony learned to pull from any direction behind, in front, and on either side. Oh sure, the ponies forgot the job at hand once in a while the first couple days, but they eventually got the lessons down real good.
Grandpa's riding lessons for us kids were about as brief as rope lessons for his ponies. "If you ever start to make your pony do something, make sure he does it, and never let your pony come home without you on top of him." Good advice for boys in the fourth or fifth grade, huh? Yes, we lost some hide getting those young horses to do as we wanted, but it always seemed to grow back in the right place and the right color. When it came to spoiling one of Grandpa's ponies, we were more afraid of his ire than anything the pony might do to us.
One event had my cousin Everett Weeks and me convinced we would be skinned alive that evening. Everett had claimed and always rode a brown gelding that we called Brownie. We were riding along the Yakima River in mid-summer when the water level was dropping and the sloughs and ponds were drying up. Naturally as 10-year-old kids, we couldn't just walk the ponies whenever we were out of sight of the ranch house. We were galloping at most every opportunity. As we ran at break-neck speed through the brush, we suddenly encountered drying up and crusted-over slough beds, most of which caused very little problem in crossing them.
Later on, as I was out in the lead, I charged through the wild roses, elderberries, and choke-cherries to find myself in the center of a large, crusted slough that gave way under Gerty's weight. Down we went, stuck in the bog. Now, this wasn't quicksand. It was just thick, gooey, sticky mud. The surface would easily support my weight, but with Gerty breaking through and struggling a bit, it quickly became an all-consuming quagmire wherein she began sinking. She tired quickly and just quit struggling and continued to sink.
My pulling on the reins and yelling did nothing to encourage her to try harder to escape certain death. Everett had managed to keep Brownie on dry ground and out of harm's way. As I walked on the crusty surface and watched Gerty losing her battle with the muck, I began to visualize the upcoming losing battle with Grandpa as I tried to explain what had happened to his filly, saddle, and bridle.
Finally, the light dawned as we realized we each had lariats tied on the saddle horns, and, together, they would make the reach from dry land to the sinking horse. Everett turned Brownie to pull Gerty out, and I began frantically beating on her, trying to encourage her to help with her own rescue. Gerty began struggling again to get free.
It must have been the Great Spirit's plan for us not to be skinned alive before we got through puberty because the rescue was a success. We quickly found some running water with a firm rocky bottom and gave Gerty and the tack a thorough cleaning. Since we often swam the river on horseback, there was no problem bringing home a wet horse and saddle. But to have ridden in on a mud-covered pony would have created too many questions from Grandpa.
Most horses have no problem at all with swimming, but there are some that can't swim a lick. Gerty was one of them that couldn't. Whenever we decided to swim across the river, Gerty never hesitated and entered the water willingly. As the water got deeper, she simply kept on walking as we submerged. When she ran out of air, she would lunge to the surface blowing air like a whale and gulp her lungs full again. Then she'd sink to the bottom to continue walking across the river. In some places, she might have to surface two or three times for air while crossing. Sometimes, if the river was too high, I would let Gerty go her own way and grab onto another horse's tail and let it pull me across those deep holes. Then I'd swim over to Gerty and remount as she entered shallower water.
A favorite game we played was "outlaws and the posse." The kids riding the fastest horses were always the outlaws and us kids riding the slower horses were always the posse. Our two cousins, Willy and Kenneth Nesmith, were the outlaws whenever they were around as their buckskins were the fastest horses on the Rez. Their farm was only about five miles from Grandpa's ranch. The outlaws were given a few minutes head start before we started hunting and chasing them. It was a small miracle that none of us kids was seriously hurt as we galloped 10 to 12 horses as fast as they could run through the river bottom, dodging each other, cottonwood trees, willows, wild-rose brambles, choke-cherries, etc. We always had lots of scratches and ripped clothes when the chases were over. Sometimes a pony would simply lose it and just run away, which happened with Gerty many times, and I would get one hell of a ride wherever she went. I don't ever remember telling Grandpa about our horseback games.
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