A Cowboy’s Horse
- April 22, 2025
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- Jan Swan Wood
Posted in: Featured, Ranch Life
My Dad had a weakness for a horse with a fast walk. I swear, he’d have bought a horse from a gypsy peddler if it just walked really fast. So, sometimes he got burned due to this weakness of his. As he got
older, he didn’t allow for his aging body and limitations and when looking at a horse wouldn’t consider
that at all, apparently. He bought some Jim Dandies. He would, upon getting a new horse home, usually
have me come and try it out to see what he’d gotten.
This had happened several times over the years after I’d left home. In this particular case, he’d gone to the monthly horse sale and, as he parked his pickup, he’d seen a guy riding a sorrel horse across the
parking lot and that horse was just motoring along at a fast running walk. By running walk, I mean that he was walking in front and nearly trotting behind, with the hind foot reaching clear up under the front cinch with each stride. Anyway, this horse sure caught Dad’s eye and he watched as the guy rode him out of sight to the sale pens.
Dad was in the seats and watching the sale and he said he kept thinking about the sorrel horse he’d
seen. Nothing else had drawn his interest but when the sorrel horse came in the ring, he sat up and looked him over closer. He was only four and had been ridden pretty hard on a forest permit for around 45 days.
Dad knew the guy that was selling him, and that should have made him slow down a bit. Tom was a trader, but a decent sort of a guy. He was forthright about any horse he was selling, to his credit, but he
was in the business of selling horses. Tom was a handy guy, in his late 40s, and as tough of a cowboy
bronc rider as anyone in five states. He could get a day’s work out of any horse he came upon, and would, and because he was able to ride anything with hair on it, he didn’t bother with any ground work or gentling of his horses.
Dad said that Tom explained that his horse would need to be ridden often as he was green, and that he
was a “cowboy’s” horse. That coming from Tom should have stopped Dad in his tracks. Dad had ridden
some tough horses when he was a young man, but didn’t have any business with one at this stage of his
life. Then Tom rode the horse around the ring. He just flowed around that ring, walking as fast as he could in the space allowed. Dad couldn’t help himself. He was mesmerized. He bought him. Tom had seen him bid and had looked long at Dad as he did so.
Dad was still in his seat when Tom found him. Now Dad was in his 60s I suppose, and Tom and him had known each other since Tom was a skinny teenager. He liked Dad and respected him. He sat down with Dad and tried to talk Dad out of taking the horse home. He didn’t think he was the right horse for Dad and all that. Of course, pride reared its foolish head, and Dad said he thought he’d get along with him fine and that he had riding for him. Tom told him that he’d take him back and give Dad his money back if
he didn’t. They shook on it and Tom left.
Fast forward a couple of weeks. I’d heard about the horse, of course, and wondered what Dad had gotten in to, knowing Tom myself. Dad had told me what Tom said to him at the sale. I was dumbstruck
that Dad hadn’t even gone and looked at the horse and talked to Tom before the sale, but what did I
know? Then, to think that Tom had tried to talk him out of the horse was pretty concerning.
When Dad had gotten the horse home, the gelding he now called Tom, was pretty pulled down. So, Dad fed him some good hay and some cake too. You know, to get some shine back on him. And he never did a thing with him. He never even caught him for the weeks since he’d brought him home.
Dad called me one evening and asked me if I could come down and help him for a couple of days. I lived about 75 miles away, so I said I’d be there in the morning after breakfast. I knew he wanted me to ride that sorrel horse for him. Well, to say I was delighted to be the crash test dummy on this deal would be a bald-faced lie, but way better me than Dad.
After my howdies and a cup of coffee with Mom and Dad, I headed for the corrals. I got the colt caught and he was sure watchy. Lots of blowing and rollers in his nose as I approached him and got a halter on him. I’ll say this, he was a pretty colt. A bright sorrel with some white feet, blaze face and well made at about 14.3 hands, which was at least a hand shorter than Dad usually liked.
The colt was so nervous on the ground that I spent some time just rubbing, sacking and handling him. He acted like he’d swat a person with a foot from either end if he got startled, so I was patient and quiet with him. Dad was watching from a barn window as I worked in the corral.
I was taking so much time that Dad finally went to the shop to work on something he was in the middle of and I kept on with the colt. Finally, I saddled him up and he stood for it but was all curled up in a wad with a hind foot cocked and ready. I didn’t put my head down there in kicking range when I reached for the cinch, I’m here to tell you, and was cautious as I pulled it up enough to keep it in place if the colt jumped. He stood, though, and I got the back cinch buckled. I took up another notch on the front cinch, then led him off a step.
He grabbed and goosed but turned to me when I bent him around. I decided to just let him go some laps without me on him and let those kinks get worked out. I checked my cinch, pulled the halter off and walked away. He stood for a moment, then took a step and absolutely exploded into the air! I stood in
the middle of the pen and watched him buck, bawl, and crack my stirrups over his back for several laps. I was sure glad I wasn’t along for the ride!
Around and around the pen he went, bucking and bawling. He could really get in the air, seemed to hang there, then when he came down, he kicked hard and high behind. Over and over. His endurance was
remarkable, for sure, but progress was not being made. He’d stop long enough to catch his breath and
then go again. I don’t know how long I watched him making laps around me, but it was a significant amount of time. When he’d stop to catch his breath, he was absolutely dripping with sweat.
I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye and spotted Dad watching through the fence. I walked over there while Tom was bucking on the other side of the pen and leaned on the fence next to
Dad and we both watched him buck. And buck and buck and buck.
Finally, Dad cleared his throat and said “Have you been on him?” Incredulous, I looked at Dad and said “No, he’s never stopped bucking long enough! Frankly, I don’t think I can ride him if I did! I know for sure I don’t want to try.” Dad was quiet then. Tom was still bucking and resting and bucking.
We watched in silence for a while. Finally, Dad said “If you can get him caught again, pull your rig off of him and turn him loose. I’ll get ahold of Tom and see if he’ll take him back.” I could see Dad was a little upset, but that was better by far than me being crippled up by this horse. Honestly, I think he was more upset with himself than with me.
I finally got a halter back on Tom and got him unsaddled. The colt had bucked until he was exhausted. I kind of felt sorry for the feller, but he sure wasn’t the horse for me, much less Dad.
It took a few days to get bronc man Tom on the phone, but when he did, Dad told him what had happened. Tom told him that he was sure afraid that the colt was just not going to work for Dad and that
he’d be glad to meet him in town and give him his money back. There were no hard feelings on either side. Best of all, I hadn’t had to ever step on this “cowboy’s horse” and find out I wasn’t that much of a
cowboy.
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Posted in: Featured, Ranch Life
About Jan Swan Wood
Jan was raised on a ranch in far western South Dakota. She grew up horseback working all descriptions of cattle, plus sheep and horses. After leaving home she pursued a post-graduate study of cowboying and dayworking in Nebraska, New Mexico, Montana, Wyoming and South Dakota....