Part 6

We were short of water that day. There had been little wind for several days so the windmill pump had not been working. In such an emergency there was a motor driven pump on a well high up on the side of the hill across the valley from our house.

After saddling Old Buck and settling him down (or so I thought) I got some tools and a gallon can of gas to run the pump motor, and decided that rather than climb that high hill myself I would ride that ornery horse up there to work off some of his excess energy. He was a little snorty, but I had him reined up tight and he couldn't do much mischief while climbing that steep hillside trail to the pump site.

The motor proved difficult to start. A half hour later I had it running but not as well as I thought it should. Still concentrating on what might be the problem with the motor, I swung into the saddle aboard Old Buck to head back to the house. True to reports he was just waiting to catch me off guard. Before I could catch the off side stirrup and get solidly set in the saddle he had his head down and was springing in giant leaps straight down the side of that steep hill. Each time he hit the ground he'd slide all four feet positioning himself for the next prodigious leap.

Grabbing at anything and everything as I worked to hang, from my perch I saw Mary and Betty Flo on the front porch waving and jumping up and down. Even the horses in the pastures below came running to get a better look at the contest between Buck and me, a contest that at that moment seemed as if I might not win.

Reaching for my hat with the same hand that held the empty gas can, I banged a knot on my head while losing both my hat and the can. Next went my pocket note book, pencils and pens, and whatever else happened to be in my pockets. Finally I was tossed in an undignified heap and could only watch as Buck ran away head high, looking back up the hill at me as he triumphantly joined the other horses to brag about how easy it was to dump that cowboy.

Mary and Betty Flo laughed, the horses snorted and laughed, and I couldn't help but laugh along with them as I gathered my things and headed down the hill. I caught Old Buck in the pasture and rode him back to the corral saying, "O.K., you caught me napping that time, but I'll be ready with a surprise the next time you try that." From then on I rode him with a short loop of leather lariat on my saddle horn.

We had six other horses on the ranch. Skippy, a big palomino with a flowing white mane and tail was a gentle natured gelding that the ladies liked to ride. Reynolds was a tall, brownish black Tennessee walker. He was Henry's personal horse and had to be dressed in a martingale to hold his head down. Otherwise when he got excited he would dance sideways and toss his head in a maddening rhythm. When he was calm and working on the trail his long swinging stride was a pleasure both to watch as well as to ride. Blaze was a three year old beautifully built sorrel colt that had not yet been broken to the saddle. Part of my job was to train him so he could be safely ridden.

Morgan was a shiny chestnut might mite of a horse that a young man had ridden all the way from Texas to Los Angeles. Henry bought him at auction where he was sold to raise money so the young Texan could enroll at UCLA. He showed his Morgan stock from his conformation to his disposition. I drove to the Los Angeles Hay Barn where the auction was held to pick him up in the ranch trailer. He most likely had never been trailered because it took a long time to calm him enough to coax him in, assuring him that a horse trailer was not something to fear.

For new riders and children there were two slow, gentle natured, indistinct horses, a black and a bay. They were dependable mounts, horses that I put Mary and Betty Flo on with no fear of either of them getting into trouble.