"I did see some wild cow wrecks and bucking horses while I was there." This article is found on page 8 in the Fall 2003 issue. In the fall of 1959, I landed a job at the ORO Ranch about 35 miles south of Seligman, Arizona. The wagon was just pullin' out for the fall works, and a fella by the name of Jim Walk hired me. I asked him if he had any bad horses, as I wanted to be a bronc rider. I was pretty full of myself at 19 years of age. He said he did, but that he had a couple of Indians to ride them. It turned out to be Oscar Paya and Curtis Lane, a couple of guys I had worked with before.
Whistle Mills, the wagon boss, cut our horses out to us, and we began shoein' up there at the headquarters.
Oscar Paya had a little 4-year-old named Spudnik. Oscar was trying to get on this horse to uncock him a little before trying to shoe him. Oscar was a short, heavy-set little guy, and every time he would jump to catch his stirrup, ol' Spudnik would jump away from him and blow up. So Jim Walk, who was sittin' there on a big stout sorrel horse called Aguila, took his rope and ran it up through the fork of his saddle and tied it off to his horn. He then cinched ol' Aguila up good and tight. He had some of the guys catch Spudnik and cinch him up real tight, too. Then they put a piggin' string around his neck, right at the throat latch. They took the other end of Walk's 30-foot catch rope and ran it through that piggin' string and tied it to Spudnik's saddle horn.
Then ol' Walk took a run at Spudnik and set Aguila up real hard. You talk about pop a horse's tail! Spudnik must have gone ten feet in the air. Walk did this about three times and gave him back to Oscar.
Oscar was evidently dreadin' him some, because he somehow got his hand wrapped in his bridle reins. As he stepped at ol' Spudnik, the horse broke in two and broke Oscar's hand pretty bad. As a result, I wound up with Oscar's horses. Oscar went back to the Supai Village, down in the Grand Canyon, and spent a nice toasty winter.
Spudnik really didn't amount to much as far as being bad. Oscar was just too short and heavy to get on him when he was fresh. There were a couple horses there that would buck a little, and some green horses, but I found out later the 'RO had shipped a carload of bad and crippled horses to Bakersfield just before I got there.
Well, we finally got shod up and worked a couple days out of the headquarters before moving to the cabin. We had been workin' to a holdup for three or four days, and we had quite a little wad of shipper cattle to go with. We gathered them and were workin' out a few pairs to be left behind. We worked all these cattle outside - no corrals. We had a cut of bulls, cripples, dries, and so forth to go with.
There were six or eight big weaner calves in the bunch. Whistle had Carl Welch cut them out the last thing and send them to the shipper cut. They were big and stout and did not want to leave their mamas, and we really had our hands full for a while.
As Carl cut out the last big calf, he told me and three other guys to come on and hit that cut real hard and keep them going for quite a ways to get them away from their mamas.
Well, little ol' Curtis had missed all the action 'cause he was on the back side of the cut. His little horse, a horse called Wahalote, had gone to sleep. When we hit that cut hollerin' and slappin' our leggin's, it startled ol' Wahalote, and he blew up and bucked Curtis off, right out the tailgate. Ol' Wahalote came runnin' right up to us, and poor little Curtis was all sprawled out in a patch of snow, holding his leg.
Wahalote came right between Carl and me, and I picked up his bridle reins. Carl said to come on and keep these cattle moving, and, when we got them a little farther off, I could take Curtis's horse back to him and pick him up. When I did get back to him, he was still layin' in that same patch of snow.
Curtis's little, skinny leg was broke plumb in two, with the bone stickin' out, and he was bleedin'. I really felt sorry for him, but not for long as he looked up at me and said, "Don, I can feel that compensation settin' in." He was lookin' forward to a winter of easy money. (In the movie Junior Bonner, Curtis played the little Indian that Ross Hall Pettigrew set up on the bar).
We worked to a holdup pretty near every day that fall and always had a little cuttin' and slashin' to do at the end of the day. Whistle always asked someone else to do it, usually Carl Welch on the Grant, or Pat Cain on the Francis Creek side. Whistle had a big tall mule named Tom Thumb. When he would catch this mule, you had better catch a tough horse because it was going to be a hard day. And, at the end of the day, Whistle would do the cuttin' on Tom Thumb. This was the only time I would see him ride into the herd.
This ol' mule was actually pretty good at it, but it was very comical to watch. Ol' Whistle would sit up ramrod straight and ride into the herd. Generally, he was cuttin' dry stuff, shippers, bulls, and so forth. When he'd get one in his sights, this ol' mule's tail would begin to spin and wring, but he would work pretty good, and, as they would come to the edge of the herd, Whistle would give a little charge to send the critter to the cut.
Well, ol' Tom Thumb, in his anticipation, would really spin his tail, and, when Whistle would set him up, his tail would fly right up over his back and his ears would fly forward, all at the same time. Whistle would reach down and pat him on the neck and ride back in to get another critter. I really liked to watch Whistle and his mule work a herd.
Like I said, every man there was an older hand except for me, and every one of them knew the country and was very capable. I never flanked so many big fall calves, wrangled and moved more horses, or cut more wood, before or since, in my life. But every man there was a good hand, and I had the greatest respect for all of them. I did a lot of things there that I have done since, but never with as good a crew as these guys were. This was a place where every man was at least close to where he was supposed to be.
One time, we were workin' out of the Triangle N and had a pretty big bunch to work in the evening. In this bunch were eight or ten big orejana heifers. Whistle and Pat decided we would just brand them and leave them there, as cattle were hard to locate in that country, it being real rough and brushy. Now, I have seen a lot of the world-champion team ropers for the last 40 years, and it would put a real strain on them to equal what I saw this day. We had about 40 cattle of all sorts - pairs, dries, and so forth. There were a couple bulls, six yearlin' bulls, and those big heifers. All these cattle were snakey, and there wasn't a fence in sight in that rough country.
We had nine men, and we built a little fire and Carl Welch and Orville Moody rode into these cattle. They'd ease around and hoolihan those big heifers by the neck. Then here they'd come out of the herd, with those big, ol' heifers buckin' and bawlin', hoppin' over rocks and brush as they went to the fire. Pat Cain was sittin' there on a big, 3-year-old, chestnut, hackamore horse, and he'd slip in there and double foot every one of those heifers, never missing a loop. I have branded out of a holdup a lot since, but I've never seen anyone as smooth and unassuming as these guys were. Don't get me wrong. They weren't infallible. I did see some wild-cow wrecks and bucking horses while I was there, but that particular branding was one to remember.
A little later on in the fall, Red Harrington and I were moving the horses, about 60 head, from Bear Creek to Francis Creek. We got a real late start, and, when we got to Pilot's Knob it was almost dark. There is a really steep canyon there, and this little ol' trail went straight down and straight up the other side. Red was in front, and I was behind.
Tired horses don't like to go down hill, especially when it's dark. About half of the horses had committed themselves to going down hill when, out of nowhere, right down in the bottom of this canyon, came a deer hunter riding a tote goat, a small 2-wheeled motorcycle geared for rough terrain.
Well, you have to understand that, in those days, those ol' 'RO horses never even saw a pickup very often, let alone a motor scooter. They were tired, and it was late in the day, and them horses just snorted and blew and broke back over me. They ran with their tails flyin' for a couple miles. I finally got around them, and Red came back to me about an hour later. We got them headed back toward Francis Creek and were doing pretty good until we got back to that same canyon.
You would have thought that there was a whole herd of lions down in that canyon. Red finally put his rope on the bell horse and led him off, and I managed to get the rest to follow him. When they hit the top on the other side, they tried to run all the way to Francis Creek, with Red fightin' them in the face. We got them in the pasture about 11 o'clock that night.
Ralph Chapman cooked for the wagon and did a good job. He had an old Dodge Power Wagon for the chuckbox and his gear. Red Harrington was the horse wrangler and hoodlum. At the headquarters, Ida Woods did the cooking, and she, too, did a great job.
When the wagon was camped at headquarters, all the rooms were taken by the older hands, so I slept out on the porch. During the day, I would just fold my bed in half and leave it. I really didn't realize it, but I guess I had slipped away from my Mama's raisin'. I hadn't had a bath in a while, and I was plumb dirty. I had been on the Diamond A wagon all spring up until July, and then I worked for Clarence Denny in the summer. I had learned to buy a pair of Levis and never wash them so they would last longer.
My bed must have stunk to high heaven, even through my tarp, because one day we got in early, and Ida Woods had poured Pine Sol or something like it, all in my bed. So, it being all wet and soggy, I had to wash it and hang it out to dry. To tell the truth, it sure was nice to crawl into clean sheets and quilts. Ida was a fine lady, and she taught me a lesson.
Johnny Mullins, the old rodeo producer, stayed around headquarters. He tended to the brood mares, studs, doggied calves and so forth. He took a liking to me, and one night he invited me into his room. He pulled a big foot-locker out from under his bed. He opened it, and it was full of western memorabilia. He had original Will James and Charlie Russell pictures and letters. He had rodeo posters from Madison Square Garden, a couple old six guns, rodeo trophies, and rodeo award plaques. I remember he had a napkin with a New York City restaurant's logo on it, and the napkin had a picture of a wild bucking horse drawn by Will James. Before I pulled out for the north country, I used to see Johnny around Prescott, usually around the St. Michaels on Whiskey Row.
Other cowboys that were there that I didn't mention were Frank Cain, Coley Lyons, Wilson Cawell (part-time) and Johnny Nichols. Every one of those guys is gone now, and I sure do miss 'em all.
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