One spring morning, I was working on a painting in my studio located at Wapato, Washington, when suddenly someone started beating loudly on the front door. When I opened the door, a smart aleck little twerp was standing there as if he ruled the entire country. Actually, he reminded me of a Banty rooster on the war path.
He asked me if the red two-ton International truck with the racks trimmed in white and a horse-backing scene painted on each side of the manger, the truck with a top speed of almost 52 mph that was parked out in front was mine. When I said yes, he began yelling that I had stolen his mare, and that he had seen me driving the truck while hauling the mare away, and that he was going to shoot me dead with his .30-.30 rifle.
I told him I had no idea as to what he was referring to and asked him to explain a little more. He stated that three days previously I had loaded his mare into that truck and hauled her away and sold her.
I invited Mr. Banty Rooster into the house and then called my wife, Janie, who happened to be a cop on duty at the Wapato Police Station.
I asked her if anyone had reported a stolen horse. After a few minutes, she called back and said there had been no reports of any stolen horses with either the tribal police, the local police, the county sheriff, or the Washington State Patrol.
By now, my fuse was getting real short. I explained to this fellow that, on the particular day in question, I had loaned my truck to my cousin, Everett Weeks, so he could haul a horse that he had broken back to his mother-in-law who lived in the area where this fellow had seen my truck.
We were about to come to blows, but I managed to get this guy out of our house. I followed him to his pickup, inside of which was a three-year-old child and a model 94 Winchester in the gun rack over the seat. I quickly returned to the house and got out a pistol. I peeked out the windows fearing this nut just might take a shot at me through the walls, but he just drove off.
Over the next few months, it seemed that everywhere I went the feed store, grocery store, gas station, barber shop, even Clyde Powers' roping arena this guy had been there ahead of me telling everyone who would listen the story about me stealing his precious mare.
Late one evening, I got a call from the Wapato Police Station saying something about Jack Strawn having the stolen mare in one of his corrals with a bunch of his horses. They asked if I wanted to go down and help load the horses out. The officer also stated that my accuser and his father were enroute from Yakima to haul the mare home. I agreed to go, but only if there were some law enforcement personnel on hand. I learned that both Deputy Sheriff Leonard Berkinbine and Tribal Police Officer Casey Watlamett would be there to help settle the problem.
When I arrived at the corral, Mr. Banty Rooster and his dad were sitting in their pickup truck with the headlights shining on the corral. The deputy and Indian policeman were in the Sheriff's car with their lights shining into the corral as well.
Jack and his partner were catching their horses. Since they had no halters and were short on ropes, their solution was to catch and tie one horse on one end of a rope and then catch and tie another horse to the other end of the same rope! That left about 25 feet of loose rope between the horses. Very shortly, they had eight head of horses tied to five ropes, with two more to catch, not counting the wild mare and her new baby, a foal the little twerp did not even know existed.
It wasn't hard to see that bad things could happen if something went wrong. It did. The wild mare and her filly had stood off in one corner of the corral while all the catching was going on, and, eventually, her nervous system told her it was time for "fight or flight." She chose flight. The mare galloped through the herd of semi-caught dude horses, causing all hell to blow!
As the panicked horses bolted in every direction, they pulled their ropes under the tails of other horses. And some jerked their ropes into the flanks of still others. The wreck just grew and grew into a giant tangle and one hell of a mess!
Jack and his partner got knocked down and run over several times each. When they'd try to stand up, they would catch a rope across the throat and get flipped over backwards. Horses were jerked over and tripped, and, while they were trying to get up, other horses would be jumping over or falling on top of them.
Things got about as western as they could get real fast! Grabbing a rope and a knife from my truck, I jumped right in the middle of the melee of running, kicking, squealing horses. I had to keep one eye peeled on the scrambling horses tied together, while I worked furiously to cut the ropes. And I used my other eye to keep an eye on the wild mare and her foal, both of which I planned to rope.
I roped the wild mare first as I didn't want that mean mama eating on me when I roped her baby and she started screaming for help. I managed to snub the mustang to a post and let her choke herself down. Then I tied her feet together. Since she only weighed about 650 pounds, five of us were able to drag and roll her to Mr. Idiot's pickup. I went back to the corral and roped the baby. She was only a couple months old, and she was easy to load with her mama. Eventually, the mare regained her composure and stood up and her filly started nursing.
The lawmen had laughed themselves half sick watching the "Wild West" show, but they were able to keep things in check and prevent any hostilities between me and the idiot kid.
A few weeks later, I heard that the old man had died of an apparent heart attack. That left that idiot kid with a bunch of runty wild horses running up and down the Yakima River from Union Gap to Toppenish. I suspect the herd probably eventually made it back to freedom on the Satus.
Anyway, Jack Strawn decided to move his horses up to the town of Parker where he lived, and, as usual, he just kinda herded them along. However, on the trip, he lost track of an 18-month-old stud colt. A few days later, he hopped on the colt's mother, bareback, and rode back to the river pastures to look for him. It didn't take him long to find him and lure him into his pasture corral so he could put a rope on him. Jack wasn't much of a roper, and he was riding bareback.
Jack had gotten pretty smart. Having learned not to tie two horses together with the same rope, he tied the lead rope around his own belly and headed north, along the same railroad tracks we had used many years ago to go courting the Union Gap girls.
Before Jack had gone too many miles, a freight train sneaked up behind him and blasted its whistle. You can guess what happened. That stampeded the almost-grown stud colt into a runaway. Since Jack was riding bareback, he was yanked off the mare and dragged for about a half mile. Thinking he was being drug to his death as he crashed through the brush, rocks, and debris along the tracks, Jack was wishing I was there with my trusty knife. Finally, he got wedged into some large sumac bushes, and that stopped the runaway.
Jack ended up with a bunch of broke ribs, and a lot of missing hide. He also learned another valuable lesson. Don't tie yourself to an animal that much larger than you are. I saw him about a week after the runaway, and there wasn't a healthy piece of hide showing any place that you could see on him.
My only encounter with any of them after that was when Art Hanson asked Everett and me to help him catch his herd of bucking horses for the Wiley City rodeo the next day. These broncs were real smart when it came to avoiding being caught to go to work. They knew the river-bottom pastures by heart and where all the best places were to hide, or when to swim to the next island.
While we were looking for the broncs, a runty little stud came out of the brush determined to breed my mare, Ajax, even though I was riding her at the time! This stud was typical of wild mustangs at that time he was about 13 1/2 hands tall and weighed about 750 pounds. He had a thick ewe neck and was cat-hammed, cow-hocked, pig-eyed, and had a head that resembled a claw-foot bath tub. He wasn't exactly what most folks look for in a herd sire.
Ajax never was a mare to be ornery while in heat, but with this stud raising hell, something had to be done and quick. I shook out a loop and roped Ol' Studdie, and he instantly lost all interest in sex. As he fought the rope, I was able to jerk him down several times. Everett thought the show was real funny and asked me how much I had paid for my rope. He figured I would have to cut it when I decided to turn the stud loose.
I laughed and told him to take a lesson. I jerked the stud down again and had Ajax keep pulling him until there was no fight left in him. I dismounted, loosened the rope, removed it from the stud's neck, and remounted, all before he got his breath back. When he regained his feet, I chased him over to another island where I hoped he would hide forever.
When it was all over, Everett told me that runty little stud belonged to the same little banty rooster twerp who had accused me of stealing his mare. I wished I had castrated him while I had him on the ground. Oh well, maybe there would be a next time.
We were never able to run the rodeo broncs into the corrals
so the bareback and saddle bronc events were cancelled at the
Wiley City Rodeo for that year.
