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Page 85
For two weeks before the round-up the outfit had been busting
broncos at the home ranch. Each morning at dawn they started,
working until the heat of the day forced them to rest. When the
temperature crawls to 104 in the shade, and the alkali-dust is so
thick in the corral that the hoofs raise a cloud in which horses
can hide themselves twenty feet away, when eyes smart and the
tongue aches in the parched mouth, it becomes almost impossible
to handle yourself, let alone a kicking, struggling bronco.
As one day is like another, and one horse differs from another
only in the order of his tricks to avoid the rope and the saddle,
a glimpse of the horsemanship of Bud Lane and his fellows will
serve as a general picture of life on any Western ranch.
The breaking of the ponies was the work of Bud Lane, who, through
the influence of Polly, had broken with McKee and returned to
work on Sweetwater Ranch in order to assist Echo, with whom he
had become reconciled on discovering that she had been loyal to
his brother even to the extent of sending her husband into the
desert to bring Dick back.
Bud was the youngest of the hands, but a lad born to the saddle
and rope. "Weak head and strong back for a horse-fighter" is a
proverb on the plains, and Bud had certainly acted the part.
Fresno and Show Low, with four flankers, had driven into the
corral a half-dozen horses untouched by man's hands since the days
of colthood. A shout, a swing of a gate, and the beasts were
huddled in the round corral, trembling and snorting. This corral
has a circular fence slightly higher than a man's head with a
snubbing-post in the center.
While this is going on, Bud has laid out his cow-saddle,
single-rigged, his quirt, and pieces of grass rope for
cross-hobbling.
"Ready, Bud?" asks Sage-brush.
"Yep," he replies, as he drops into the corral.
Bud adjusts the hondo and loop of his lariat, keeping his eye on
the circling horses, and picking out his first victim. The rope
snakes through the air, and falls over the head of a pony.
Leaping, bucking, striking with his hoofs at the rope about his
neck, the horse fights and snorts. As the rope tightens,
shutting off his wind, he plunges less viciously.
Bud, with the help of Fresno and Show Low, takes a turn about the
snubbing-post, easing up the rope to prevent the horse from
breaking his neck when he falls.
The pony, with braced feet, hauls on the lariat, until choking,
it throws itself. Bud in a twinkling has his knee on the
bronco's neck. Grasping the under jaw, he throws the head up in
the air until the nose points skyward. The turn is slipped from
the post, and the noose is slackened and pulled like a bridle
over the animal's head, to be fastened curbwise to his under jaw.
Stunned and choked, the horse fights for breath, giving Bud time
to hobble his front feet and bridle it. Bud jumps aside as the
bronco struggles to his feet. But every move of the beast to
free itself results in a fall.
Meantime the hind foot has been noosed and fastened to the one in
front. Bud has cross-hobbled the horse, preparing it for the
saddle and the second lesson. Holding the pony by the reins and
rope, Bud, after many failures, throws a saddle-blanket across
its back. With one hand he must also toss a forty-pound saddle
into place. Every move Bud makes is fought by the bronco, every
touch of blanket resented. With his free hand, Bud must now slip
the latigo strap through the cinch-ring. Dodging, twisting,
struggling, covered with sweat, the horse foils Bud's quick
movements. Finally he succeeds, and with one tight jerk the
saddle is in place.
No time to think is given the beast. Fresno and Show Low remove
the hobbles, but Bud is twisting an ear to distract its
attention. This new torture must be met with a new defense, and
the horse is so dazed that it stands still to puzzle out the
problem.
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