If you stay in the rough-stock game long enough, you will eventually meet your "Waterloo." It is not if, it is just a matter of when. Some "bronc busters" go a long time before they hit the wall, while others seem to get "whipped out" right out of the gate. It is always a shock to run into a feller that you knew to be a pretty tough hand with outlaw horses, and you learn that he is now laying carpet or, worse yet, driving a truck for a living instead of snapping broncs. I was surprised when I learned one of my cowboy heroes, Will James, had quit the bronc game at the tender age of just 26 years old.
I was a little older than Will James when I met my Waterloo. Mine was a horse out of the Diamond A Ranch remuda at Seligman, Arizona. My first morning on the Diamond A Ranch, I found myself located in a camp called Kee-see-haw. That morning, it took forever for the three ropers to finally get my first horse caught and led out of the remuda.
The horse was a little snorty and real bad to mount. If you tried to cheek him, he'd throw his head on the ground, jerking you down. If you tried to just get on, he would whirl and kick you down.
After a time, a couple punchers rode in and boxed him in with their horses so I could get on. The horse crow-hopped for a couple jumps, and then we lined out for the morning's circle. Since he wasn't very tough, I survived the first horse pretty well. Being the new man on this outfit, I knew that my second horse was most likely going to be a heck of a lot worse than the first. Everybody knows the new hand is supposed to be that day's entertainment.
After the noon meal, the horse wrangler came into camp driving the remuda for the noon change. I just thought that the morning horse-catching was a fiasco, but the noon change proved to be the wildest event yet. As soon as the spoiled remuda came into the rope corral, they went to milling and crowding. A huge cloud of dust rose up among them, almost concealing about 100 head of horses.
The three horse-ropers averaged about six to ten loops per horse, and they succeeded in running the remuda completely over the rope corral twice. I have never seen a more spoiled remuda or worse horse-catchers; the whole thing just wouldn't have been tolerated on most ranches. The horse-catchers finally managed to rope a saddle horse for everyone except me and one other cowboy.
One of the ropers finally managed (after throwing about 20 loops) to catch another horse, and all hell broke loose in the remuda. The horse that was just roped roared like a lion and exploded on the end of the lass rope when the loop came tight around his throat latch.
After bucking over the top of and knocking down a number of other horses, he came out of the herd striking at his head. The guy who had roped him jumped over the ropes and ran backwards from the horse, as he was trying to save his own life.
This horse threw such a fit he, too, ran the whole remuda over the ropes for the third time. This time, the whole herd of saddle horses completely escaped even from the confines of the sheep-wire water lot. The horse wrangler had to ride way out into the brush to retrieve them. I noticed that our "horse roper" still was keeping his distance from that "panther" that he had on the end of his rope.
Finally he looked at me, and, with a pale face and shaky voice, said, "Here. Here's your horse." It was dead silent for a moment, and everyone was looking at me.
I looked around and grinned and then asked the old boy, "What happened? Did I tick someone off this morning?" I then proceeded to take possession of my mount. Everyone else was acting like he was saddling up, but they couldn't do it very well because they were really watching my bronc and me.
I knew that this renegade was gonna blow, so getting on was my next problem. I looked around, and there was part of an old loading alley in a corner. I lead him into the alley and cheeked him up and got on. As I turned him around and rode out, the bronc popped his cork.
When he threw down on me, I took my hat off and went to whuppin'
him over his right eye with it. This forced him into a spin so
he couldn't buck into the old sheep-wire fence with me. He was
bucking and spinning so hard that he finally lost his feet with
me and fell down, sending me skidding out across the ground.
The bronc then regained his feet and bucked down the fence and got past the guy guarding the gate. Soon, that cowboy and a couple others rode out to rope him and bring him back. I re-seated my saddle and then went back into the alley and stepped on and restarted the dance.
This time, I figured that the horse knew his way out into the open, so I just hung the steel to him. After all, he was going to buck anyway. There was no talking him out of it. I spurred him 'til he hit the brush and pulled his head up. The wagon boss came by at a lope and headed up a steep ridge. He and a couple other cowboys hazed us as we headed for the high lonesome. After a mile or so of running uphill, I figured that I probably had the edge wore off of him.
Boy, was I ever wrong! The puke blew up nine more times in about an hour and a half. He could buck up hill or down with equal enthusiasm, and what a dandy he was! You couldn't turn him in 50 acres when he pulled his head up. Once, he bucked head-on into a tree with me, and another time he drove my saddle horn up under my ribs.
I had spurred on him 'til I broke a spoke out of one spur rowel. I had bent two other spokes on the other rowel so bad that my big Mexican rowels couldn't even roll any more, and they became locked like a set of bull-riding spurs.
And I was beginning to discover that I wasn't 16 anymore. I was getting the horse rode, but I was absolutely exhausted, and it wasn't fun like it used to be when I was a kid. Suddenly, at 29 years of age, it just didn't make any sense to me to ride someone else's 10-cent horse for those poverty ranch wages.
Up the mountain a little ways, I found myself perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking what was probably part of the Grand Canyon, and I was seriously re-thinking my chosen vocation.
Then it happened the bronc blew up on the side of the big canyon, and he was bucking blind straight for the edge of the cliff. I pulled on my snaffle-bit rein with all the strength I had left, and spurred him along the right side of his neck. I couldn't bend or turn him. Seeing where I was headed, it didn't take long for me to figure out that I could buy a new saddle! About the time that I opted to eject, a Hualapai Indian cowboy came from seemingly out of nowhere and slammed into my bronc with his horse.
This caused my bronc to pull his head up and turn from a certain (and probably well-deserved) death on the jagged rocks hundreds of feet below. It also saved me from having to buy a new kack.
That did it. When he quit bucking that time, I got off and reseated my saddle. Then I got a couple punchers to ride in and hold the bronc's head while I got back on. Once on, I turned around and told the wagon boss that I was finished and was going back to camp.
The boss was a little shocked at my announcement, and, as I turned and rode off, he caught up to me and offered me a raise. I appreciated the offer, but an extra $10 a month didn't seem real appealing from where I was sitting. I knew my days as a bronc rider were pretty much over, so I thanked him and rode away. He rode up to me one more time and made me another offer.
He said, "Nobody else has ever made it this far on that horse." Again I thanked him and rode back down the mountain.
When I was just a few hundred yards from camp, I had to take a whiz, so I eased off and answered nature's call. Then, when I went to remount, I discovered I was pretty stiff and bruised up real bad. I wasn't moving nearly as fast as I was when I had started out that morning. When I went to remount, the old pony whirled and kicked at me and jerked away.
For the first time in years, I was set afoot, and I walked back to camp a few yards behind my horse. It didn't seem to really matter because there wasn't much left of my pride at this point. After cornering the horse at the water trap and getting my saddle back, I headed to the wagon to get my bedroll.
The cook met me with a hot cup of coffee. I took a couple sips and started to gather my gear.
Then he asked, "Are you leaving?"
"Yep."
He asked, "Is it because of the horse?"
"No, not really," I answered. "I have just discovered that I'm not 16 anymore."
The now grinning cook then handed me a big piece of apple pie and said, "Don't feel bad. The last guy never made it out of that water lot on that bronc."
Nowadays, anytime I find myself feeling like I'm younger than I really am and wanting to be a bronc stomper again, I just think back about 15 years ago, back to when I met my Waterloo on the Diamond A Ranch. That brings me back to my senses real fast.
And, in case ya'll are wondering what happened to that horse,
the last time I heard, he was still bucking as a saddle bronc
in Cotton Rosser's rodeo company.
