Friday, July 17, 2009

The Old Naked Spur


It seems to me when I was a short horn, I had to be in the middle of things. If you don’t, you feel like an old empty bottle. If there was any action, there is where I would be, and if there wasn’t any action, I would make some.

I was determined even when I was just a button, I suppose around three or four years old, I was going to be a cowboy and a few years later I did become a cowboy, a bronc rider, rodeoer, etc. But somewhere along the trail, there is a beginning.

One way or another I had come by an old spur. Just a plain, lone, single naked spur. No spur strap to hold the spur on my shoe. At this point, I had never owned such a thing as a cowboy boot. In them days, as I remember, they didn’t make cowboy boots for kids as they do now. I spent one whole fore noon finding a leather strap and fixing holes; and after many attempts, succeeded in getting the spur to stay on my shoe. I was about as happy as a frog in cool water over this achievement.

Next I needed a pair of cowboy chaps. To accomplish this venture, I found two round, empty Mother’s Oats cereal boxes. I cut holes in the bottom of each box just large enough to make each foot squeeze through and those were my chaps. And again, I’m plumb proud of myself. I now had a spur that would stay on my foot and a pair of imitation chaps. In my boyish mind, plumb good bull hide batwing chaps.

What I needed was a horse. Dad had a real fine brown, stocking legged, bald faced four or five year old mare. We called her Dolly. Old Dolly was about seven eighths thoroughbred and, boy howdy, what a horse! Lots of life, good action, a fine traveler. Dolly was way too much horse for a short horn like me, even if I had of had a world of experience with horses, which I didn’t have up to that point. I was young and green behind the ears for this type of horse. But I had seen Dell and Andy, my two older brothers, ride Dolly and I figured that if they could ride Dolly, I could too.

I had asked dad a number of times to let me ride Dolly. Dad always said, “Cotton (my nick name since my hair was so white), you’re just a button and still wet behind the ears and Dolly, well – she’s just too much horse for you to ride.” “But dad,” I’d say, “I ride old Ted, old Nig, or when Max Tidwell or Aaron Jones comes to see me, I ride their horses, and besides I have seen Dell and Andy ride Dolly and I’m as good a rider as they are.” Dad would say, “Dolly is a different kind of a horse than any of those other horses. They are cold blooded animals, gentle, can’t hardly get them off on a walk. And Max Tidwell’s and the Jones’ horses are kid ponies, but old Dolly is a hot blood, almost a full thoroughbred. She’ll run at the drop of a hat. That’s her nature. I worry about Dell and Andy riding her and I shouldn’t let them ride her. But Dell is three and a half years older than you and Andy is two and half years older than you, plus they have had more experience than you. Now, Cotton top, you’re just gonna have to set and scratch a while. This is final. Don’t ask me anymore about riding Dolly, because you can’t.”

But I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I had to learn for myself, the hard way. If you see a sign which states ‘wet paint, don’t touch!’ What do people do nine times out of ten, they have to put their finger against the paint to see for themselves if the paint is wet or not. They can’t help it. They do it. They won’t accept what the sign says.

In spite of what my father told me, ‘old Dolly was way too much horse for me,’ I had to find out for myself. One way or another, I was going to ride that mare if it was the last thing I ever done. Dad knew this. He had suspicion that the first time I got a chance I would be in the middle of that horse so dad told Dell and Andy to keep the riding bridle hid from me. This they did. I would beg them to tell me where the bridle was, but they wouldn’t.

After spending considerable time looking for the bridle, I gave it up and went and got a tie rope. I walked into the horse corral and singled Dolly out from the other horses. I walked up to her slowly, speaking low, “whoa Dolly, whoa, Dolly.” I got a rope around her neck and then I led her over to the side of a wagon and I put a loop over her nose. I got into the wagon and then onto old Dolly’s back. I was ready for my ride.
I eased her away from the wagon across the yard onto the road and started across the field along side the road towards the gate. Dolly began to trot and since I was riding bareback with nothing to hang onto I suppose I clinched my legs to old on and in doing so, touched her with that old naked spur. Holy Smokes! Old Dolly, when I touched her with that spur, she left the earth. When she hit the ground again, She was on a dead run. What I mean is that horse was packing the mail. Talk about the pony express. They weren’t even in it.

Part of the road was really muddy where irrigation water had puddled. I was scared. I thought for sure Dolly would fall when we hit the mud, but through it she went, mud flying in every direction. Across the field to the south fence then she turned east along the fence still on the road, running like the wind and the wind was whistling in my ears.
Then I began to worry. ”What will she do when she gets to the gate? Will she try to jump the gate?” My heart was in my throat! But when we got to the gate, Dolly kept going straight past the gate along the fence toward the south east corner. I thought she might hit the fence, but no, she turned north at the east corner and headed straight toward the big wash. The wash was man made to help drain a swamp and had grown to a considerable size.

Holy Smokes! Boy howdy! She can’t possibly jump that wash! No horse could jump that wash! To my eight or nine year old mind that seemed gigantic. Way too wide! Old Dolly is running like a bullet shot out of a rifle. I had buck fever and that cotton picken spur was still socked in clear up to the hilt. Dolly liked to run anyway and that old naked spur was added powder in the gun barrel.

We reached the wash and then we were sailing through the air like a bird. I looked down and saw the bottom of the wash a long ways down. Then I felt Dolly’s feet hit the ground. Holy Smokes! Dolly had jumped the wash! I had ridden her through all that mud and then she was a packing the mail, really running and then jumped the wash! I’m gonna be a real cowboy. Confidence came flooding back into my veins. Then my brain began to work. I finally realized that the spur was making things worse. I withdrew the spur but dolly kept running just like the wind. I kept pulling on the rope looped around her nose and saying, “Whoa Dolly, whoa Dolly,” but she just kept going like a streak. I was on a seven eights thoroughbred horse and she was a running away with nothing but a loop on her nose.

Dad had a patch of ground with lots of tumbleweeds and grain stubble. Andy had raked these weeds with a hay rake and team into a huge pile, thinking, I suppose, to have a big fire. As yet, he hadn’t started the fire but was standing there with a pitchfork in his hand watching me and old Dolly.

Dolly had turned at the northeast corner and was now running west and straight toward that big pile of weeds, which was also in the direction of the corral. I thought at first that she would go around the pile of weeds, then when we got closer, I thought, “Oh, oh, Dolly’s going to try and jump over the top of the weeds.” I also thought for sure “Ill fall off here.” But no, to my great surprise, Dolly went straight through that big high pile of weeds, weeds flying everywhere!

Boy, oh boy, then confidence again, I hollered to Andy, “Don’t you wish you could ride like me?” Andy told me afterwards that he never heard a sound just old Dolly running so fast that the wind whipped the words to nothing, no sound. Unconscious of what I was doing, I am sure that old naked spur was sunk clear to the shank of old Dolly. She was or had gone completely crazy with that spur in her ribs.

When one stands in the stream of time, older and experienced, he is much wiser or should be. I’ve done a lot of things in my life, but this one takes the whole biscuit. I must have been quite a sight with those round Mother’s Oats cereal boxes for chaps. Yes, sir, this young bucko must a been somethin to look at.

By this time, we had completely circled the east half of the farm. We were coming back up toward the corral where it all started from. Old Dolly kept going. She never slowed down or attempted to go into the horse corral where the other horses were. She passed the corral headed in the direction of the house. Holy smokes! Dad saw her coming and he ran between Dolly and the house waving his arms at the same time calling “Whoa, Dolly Whoa, trying to turn her into the corral.” But Dolly didn’t know what she was doing with that old naked spur in her ribs. Straight for the house she flew. She didn’t slow down one bit.

Just a split second before she hit the house, I tried to jump off. Dad said Dolly put on the brakes when she felt me slide off. Dolly braced her legs but too late – she hit the house with a jar and a thump that shook the entire building.

When I came too, I was lying on the bed with mama, dad and the family gazing down at me. Mama said, “How’s my baby boy?” (I didn’t like her to call me baby even if I was the youngest boy.) I said, “I’m ok. What happened?” They told me Dolly had hit the house about the same time as I hit the ground. I said, “Is Dolly hurt?” Dad said, “No, she is waiting outside for you to continue the ride.” I said, “Well, maybe we’d better wait till tomorrow.” Everyone laughed. I had a lump on my head about the size of an egg where my head had hit the ground.

By this time, I was sitting upon the side of the bed. Dad said “That’s some spur you got there.” I said, “Ya.” Dad asked, “Do you know what it’s for?” I said, “Ya, it’s to make horses go faster.” Again, dad and everyone laughed. Dad said, “To a certain extent yes, but a cowboy knows how to use his spurs. Sometimes cowboys ride good horses and lots of times they never use spurs at all. He’s got his spurs on his boots all the time, but he doesn’t have to use them. A plumb good horse responds to leg pressure, the way the cowboy speaks, or handles his body, etc. Old Dolly is one of these kinds of horses.

She’s a thoroughbred with lots of life, high spirited. It’s her nature to move quick and to want to run. You never need a spur or a whip on a wonderful horse like Dolly. Therefore when you socked that spur into her ribs, old Dolly went crazy! Plumb loco! She was running wild, plus you didn’t even have a bridle on her. I knew you wanted to ride that horse so that’s why I told both Dell and Andrew to hide the bridle from you. It was very foolish for you to think you could ride her with just a loop over her nose even if you didn’t have a spur on.

Now, Cotton, my son, you’re just a button and your beginning to spread out a little and you want to learn. I appreciate your ambitions, but remember you’re still wet behind the ears - young. I will never let you ride old Dolly until you are ready and can ride her. I don’t want you hurt. Is it a deal? You ride Dolly when I say so. How about it.” I said, “Ok, Dad, I won’t try again until you tell me. I promise.” However, at the very moment I said I wouldn’t ride Dolly again, I was planning my next ride. However I had graduated on one point. The next time Dolly and I got together, I would have a bridle on her and I would leave the old naked spur a hanging on a nail that had been driven into the side of the house.

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