Money for Nothing

                                                         Money for Nothing (Chicks for Free)

I've loved two women in my life.  Lora was certainly a very special person who a man is lucky enough to meet in a hundred lifetimes.  There won't ever be another like her, not for me anyway.  I think I've stumbled more than a bit trying to find her twin the past bunch of years but finding that gem ain't too likely.  I did ask her sister Sue Sue to marry me but she turned me down like a badly burnt pancake.  Said she knew too much about me!  Well, then there was the woman who did enter the scene a while after Lora and as I've described that affair to a few good friends, "I went from the robin's nest to the bees nest with that one."  I'd have to be drunker than a waltzing pissant to pass along the story on that one so I'll let it be.  Be that as it may, the point of it all is to recognize that they're (women that is) a different breed of cat.  I know what you're thinking, "tell me something I don't know Bill."  I might add as well that when you the reader figure out the feminine gender please write the damned book and kindly send me the first copy.  I want to be the first to know.

I do know this however.  Women aren't just a different breed but each and every woman is singular.  There aren't two women in this universe that are alike.  I don't know if God had it planned that way but he surely put his cards squarely on the table and said, "you think you're so smart, well you go figure 'em out."  I've done a better job trying to figure out horses than women and that's really the gist of the following subject matter.  I've had more success with horses but the plain fact of the matter is that like women, there aren't two horses that are alike either.  And to add a bit more to that not very profound statement, both women and horses offer very similar exercises in frustration, and yes, in joy!

Now then, before I get myself in too far like the none too deep character Pea Eye in the Larry McMurtry novel, Lonesome Dove, as he lamely tried to explain away his reluctance to chase buffalo with a tale about the neighbor lady's husband and his misfortune with bison, to Augustus McRae, who responded by telling him he was getting in over his head,  I do want to gently move the topic at hand squarely back to the world of horses.  I'm a whole lot more confident passing along to you the loves of my life, horses that is, than the women I've loved.  We're back in safe territory and quite frankly I'm looking forward to sharing those with you.

When I think back there have been a bunch of good ones.  There was Charlie, a middle aged thoroughbreddy lookin' gelding, mountain wise, fast enough on his feet, and handy enough in a jackpot.  We hunted the Hoback Range country south of Jackson when the elk hunting was in its prime.  There were fourteen thousand elk on the refuge in town and many more scattered on refuges throughout the area.  On more than a few occasions I can recall riding into more than two hundred head in a herd.  Those kind of numbers are unheard of anymore.  I rode Charlie pretty steadily during that period of time in the mid 1970's, before environmeddlers began their campaign to reintroduce wolves back into the picture.  Charlie took good care of me.  We covered hundreds of miles together in some wild and pretty country.  I don't know what that Willow Creek drainage looks like today.  I do know that Charlie was my good partner in those early years.  To Charlie;  long may you run.

Cody, (Ko Dee Jo Bonanza) .  I bought Cody, a registered Bonanza bred quarter horse as a three year old from a fellow down in the Bitteroot Valley south of Missoula.  I should have bought two of him!  Cody was a fine looking, muscled up fellow who was good to go from day one.  His owner had done a great job starting him.   He wasn't at all cold backed, never offered to buck, and although a bit slow on the get go, he sure as hell never made a bad move.  It wasn't but his second ride with me in some rugged country in the Selway-Bitteroot Wilderness, easing our way through a lodgepole pine thicket, we killed our first bull at no more than forty yards.  I swear that bull, hard in the rut, walked in on Cody's footfalls, mistaking him for another bull.  We got off to a great start!  Shortly after that episode we were on our way to Bear Creek Ranch and what was to be my home for the following thirty plus years.  In retrospect, as wonderful a horse as Cody was  there's no doubt that horse was bred to be on cattle.  He always did the job I asked of him but perhaps with some element of resignation.  He didn't fire up on the trail and one needed to keep a leg on him to keep him attentive and moving.  But on those days when we were moving horses or on occasion, cows, I could feel a horse under me.  His ears went back and his lights went on.  I'd love to have had him down the road when we started to rope.  He'd have been in his element.  He wire cut the back of his rear foot down close to the bulbs of his hoof and never quite made it back to full health,  We put him down in his tenth year.  Cody was a good one.  When you've spent hundreds of hours on the back of a horse over the course of a decade one doesn't forget.

I think that my life with horses really began to accelerate as we recognized and put into place a very horse intensive program at the ranch.  From late April until December, we emphasized activities that took place on the back of a horse.  Beginning in the mid 80's we put on the miles big time and as we did so purchased one horse after another.  I think we reached more than sixty head of horses with some mules to pack as part of the string as well.  And believe me, even with that number of horses, we still found ourselves short at times.  If you're running sixty head there's mares with colts one has to hold out.  Then there's a few lame ones, several that are sore, and then those that just need to be rotated out for rest.  When you get down to it, maybe there's forty that are good to go.  But then again, out of that forty, there's always a bronc or two in the   bunch.  And who wants to ride a horse that's likely to blow up when you've got a half dozen guests to take care of.  See what I mean?  We're down to thirty eight head out of sixty.  That's alot of grass!

Be that as it may, as I've often maintained, there's only one way to learn how to ride and that's by swingin' a leg over and putting on the miles.  Our guests came to the ranch to ride and so we obliged them to the best of our abilities.  We rode, rode some more, and rode till we dropped.  And then got up and did it all again.  Those were some good days for all of us.  Alot of the folks that came to us were pretty green.  But when they left us they weren't.  I swear we ran through lots of good people who never would have imagined they'd do what they did on the back of a good horse.  Like I said, we rode hard, we rode in hard country.  And we got it done. Those years were a kick in the pants.  Many of those guests are still in touch and a bunch of them will be back here this coming summer.

As you might well imagine, during the course of a very horse intensive bunch of years there were a few real bright lights as that pertained to my personal choice of horses.  There was Dodger, first and foremost arguably the finest horse I'll ever have the privilege and honor of riding. Dodger was a horse among all horses.  I got Dodger from Rick Lucke in the late 80's.  Rick had got him from the Gustaffsons down in the Two Medicine country.  He was a locally bred registered quarter horse with the +3 brand on his left hip.  The Gustaffsons make some nice horses.

Dodger was also the Richard Farnsworth character in the movie, "Comes a Horseman" and came to me as a three year old.  Rick sold me the horse because as he explained to me, "the horse crowhops a bit when you first get on him."  Uh huh.  We've all heard that one before.  Rick had some horse trader in him as you might have already guessed.  And yup, Dodger could "crowhop."  He was juicy enough that first season I rode him but when he came back off of winter pasture as a four year old he'd muscled up a whole lot and it wasn't long before I discovered he could buck.  And I mean plumb break in half I kid you not.  The redeeming factor with Dodger is that he was predicable.  He'd buck in the morning when he was cold backed and I could usually feel it coming.  If I could catch him before he got his head down I could talk him out of his "condition" and on we'd go.

Dodger and I travelled together for more than a decade.  We covered more country than most horse folks cover in ten lifetimes I kid you not.  We ran horses, moved cows, rode the park, the Bob Marshall Wilderness, killed elk, got ourselves into more than a few jackpots, and spent many nights together in primitive spike camps well above timberline.  Dodger was my pard during those years.  He bucked me off atleast twice a year or more and sometimes it wasn't pretty.  He could buck hard. I rode him in a single rigged Hamley saddle with a deep swell.  It didn't make any difference.  He'd bust in half, dump me on my ass, but he never quit me.   I was directing a horsemanship clinic for some folks one time in our sand arena and I had a leg swung over his neck as I was explaining gaits and lo and behold I found myself airborne after one good jump.  There I was, on my butt,  surrounded by a bunch of ladies beginning to think I was the second coming of Ray Hunt. Right!  I didn't say a word .  I brushed myself off, got back in the saddle as if nothing has occurred and carried on.  What could I say?  Dodger is still alive.  He's twenty seven years old now and swaybacked to beat hell.  That's no wonder.  But he's a wonder.  I'll be one lucky man if I ever find another horse even close to his calibre.  See, there is an analogy there.  Horses and women.  Lora and Dodger.  Hard to find two like 'em!

Ahhh, Gambler.  Yup, he was an Appaloosa, registered to the breed and introduced to me by Carol Many Quills from the Blood Reserve in Alberta.  Probably the kindest horse I've ever ridden over a long period of time.  Gambler was a rope horse extraordinaire.  He was a big horse, probably twelve, thirteen hundred pounds and a good sixteen hands.  What an animal.  Sixteen years old when I took possession of him after getting my ass kicked in that horse trade.  Carol asked for a pretty tidy sum of money for Gambler and she didn't back down.  I felt like Captain Woodrow E. Call, Texas Ranger, also from the same McMurtry novel I've mentioned, after he got financially raped by that fine woman Clara, Bob's wife, and damned well knew it.  Remember?  The Captain, after having his wallet emptied by Clara, was additionally perplexed by her gracious gift of a horse to the Captain's son Newt and in fact asked Newt why he thought she gave him that horse as a gift after being so tight during the sale.  Newt had no clue himself why he was bestowed with that fine horse by Clara and finally, the Captain just started off into space and in a confused manner replied "women!"  Well, that about says it all.  I rest my case.

The plan fact of the matter is however, that Gambler could rope.  He was good in the box, rated a cow right on the money, handled a rope real well, and was smooth with the handle.  Most of  my first ropings with Gambler were up at Sam Lanes -X6 arena on the top of Hausman Hill north of Browning.  That was a cold winter and I recall roping on more than one occasion at well below zero.  That quonset hut arena was maybe 120 feet long and 40 wide.  Made for some pretty tight roping and it was prone for good wrecks.  But those Indian boys (and girls) know how to handle a juicy horse with or without a rope and although things could get a bit western at times I can't recall any real disasters.   But it was colder than a witch's tit a good part of the time. You couldn't see from one end of the barn to another there was so much steam from horses and warm bodies mixing it up with below zero temps.  Hey, that was the only game in town back in those days and we all roped hard and didn't complain.  And Gambler was always steady .

I paid her full price but then again, never regretted it.  Gambler was worth every penny.  The first good steer I ever turned on Gambler was at the Hell's Half Acre Mother's Day rodeo down on the Two Medicine River.
Those out of the way Indian Rodeos like "Hell's Half" are always tougher than you'd think. Some of the very best local cowboys and cowgirls bring their best stuff with them.  Team roping entries might go to sixty or seventy teams and once the roping began to warm up the times went down in a hurry.  At "Hells Half" that first year with Gambler I turned a steer pretty quickly but my heelings partner's horse stumbled moving into the catch and that ended ended some very temporary glory.  Nevertheless, I roped on Gambler pretty hard the next couple years and one might say, really cut my teeth on the back of that exceptional animal.  Even later on, after graduating to some younger, faster mounts, Gambler remained a tough competitor with a heart as big as a tank.  Oh, Gambler wasn't the quickest cat in the bunch but he was the kindest, most forgiving horse I've ever owned.  He is missed.  End of Part 1.

Stay tuned to Adventures with Positive and Hombre.  The True and (Untrue) Tales Tales of Horses and Women in the Key of Life.