Rensselaer Journal, Volume 11, Number 3, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 June 1901 — FOURTHOTJULYRIDING AT GALENA [ARTICLE]

FOURTHOTJULYRIDING AT GALENA

"Howly mother, gintlemin!" argued Dillon, " ’tis a matther av importince. Wud ye have another shootin’ Donnybrook? an’ me a-bearin* av all the divilment, same as twuz last year? Wid the riputashun av the camp, too! In the name av innlslnce, have ye no heads for an emergency?" Dillon was clearly in earnest, and when a man of his racial characteristics is In earnest things are likely to happen, whether the scene of action be Spitzbegen or Timbuctoo. His indignation at our stupidity—at the mayor’s, the sheriff’s, and mine—was offensive; but we could offer no suggestion that might stand for us as combatant. There were men in the camp with official titles, and men very prone to swift and accurate shooting, but these collectively were as naught before the breath of Dillon. Galena was like most other of Northwestern mining towns; If at all distinguishable from them, it was by a slight accentuation of that air of bonhomie which is more or less apparent on the visages of all communities of the genus. Dillon owned and genially presided over one of the biggest and brightest and most bemirrored of the combination saloons and gambling reports. The mayor, the sheriff, and I sat in a back room of the saloon, listening intently to Dillon’s harangue. After he had given us every opportunity to suggest ways and means for the day of entertainment, fruitlessly, he elucidated to us his own idea of a program,which was voted on and adopted by unanimous and Immediate consent This narrative deals solely with the first number of the program, so you will be compelled to surmise the others from it “We wull begin,” says Dillon, “in the morning", wld what ye might dlshignate a toorymint. This is the way av it: We wull have rounded up a bunch av thlm dlvlls av bronchos, an’ we wull also have rounded up a bunch av joJJy bhoys; we wull beguile the bhoys to the backs av the broncos, an’ we will grta the best busther av thlm a folne fat purse—which he wull spind immejutely. This, ye may understhand, is legltlmut, wld excoitement enough to kape aft the raw idge av their timper. This we wull—" but this is as much as concerns us.

A goodly purse was collected against the coming of the popular event. Dillon’s "ante" (his own word) was a hundred, and a number of others came down handsomely. But in the Interval between the statement of the idea ana the day of fulfillment there arose the necessity for some modification in the plans. Dillon had relied on procuring a number of bad and unbroken horses, and on having the many volunteer riders break them on time, or something of that sort. When the trial was made, however, it was found impossible to bring together the required number of sure-enough bad horses; that is, horses which could be depended on to make excitement under any circumstances; so a big list of shapped and sombreroed competitors could not, consequently, be accommodated. The morning of the Fourth dawned in all the chaste radiance of July in the foothills, such a day as recompenses a man for a year lived in a hut, 150 miles from the nearest railroad artery, and, as they say in Montana, "only a mile from hell." Dli«®Hfter breakfast those ranch the rival valleys, and from all adjacent sections, who had not been fortunate enough to get in the night before, began to concentrate in the camp. Dillon drew me out to the veranda. "By me sowl, ’twull be beautiful," says he. "We have a brace av the beasts as wud misharse the divil, an’ the bhoys are folne an’ achin’ for the sport Ye’ll see ut the day, me son.” He was in merriest spirits himself, and I should have enjoyed some of the effervescence of his rollicking blarney; but his unswering sense of duty to the day compelled him to drink more frequently that I had reason to believe my experience and capacity would permit so I was forced to abjure his society. About 10 he got on a table somehow, and announced the riding, and invited the contesting busters up to throw dice for choice of horse. This called forth uproarious yells of applause. One of the contestants, the North Valley representative, was not present, but his mentor was, with full power to act. This latter, however, an sld ranch foreman, with badly bowed legs and a erooked back,called out renewed cheers by remarking that he “reckoned it didn’t make much difference about the throwin*, as Curlew war satisfied with a’moat any hoes." But the South Valley contingent demurred at this, and Dillon routed it as unparliamentary. So old Joe and the South Valley man cast for choice, and the throw was Joe's. He gruffly chose the horse that should bo nearer the corral gats. Then they shook out again for precedence in order of riding, and this time the South Valley broncho buster won, electing to ride second. There was one other contestant, who did not throw—but I am anticipating my story. After these preliminaries all roads pointed corralward, the exodus even stripping Dillon’s bar of Its daft attendants. The corral was Masted at Mbs open extremity of the gulch. on a fiat of much lower level than that of Dillon's and the other main division of ths town.

When I got down the flat was cleared for action, and the man called Curlew was preparing to ride. He had barely time to draw his sleeve across his perspiring face when the half-choked and ’ bewildered pony had leaped, like a flash, to his feet; at the same fractonal part of a second, Curlew was lightly ensconced In the saddle, stirruped and pulling off the pony’s hood. Blinded by the sun, dazed and frightened by the weight on his back, the bay stood quivering for a short space. But a stinging cut from Curlew’s quirt discovered his bondage to him. Up he reared, straight and unhesitatingly, till, losing his balance, he dropped over backward with an ugly thud, the broad horn of the cow saddle digging into the ground just where Curlew should have been. But the red-haired rider was to one side, waiting. He must have been quick as light, for I assure you the play of the pony was not slow. Again and again the bay rose in the air aiffl repeated the backward fall, Curlew each time eluding It and each time swinging in the saddle as the playful brute came to his feet. It was all incredibly rapid, and how the boy handled his long, loose-jointed legs is yet a mystery to me. There were 12 of these backward half-somersaults in that 90-foot corral, and then the manoeuvre was over, forming merely an unostentatious prelude to the real tactics of the tight. With a shrill whistle of rage that brought my heart against my ribs the bay made several sharp sidelong jumps and then took to running. Through the corral gate, across the flat, up the steep pitch, and into the town he went, the whole company of Interested spectators following at their variously best paces. Curlew set him with swaying ease, the hackamore rope hanging loose in his hand; he made,no attempt to stop or to guide. In the midst of the town the run ended In the inevitable buck, and thenceforth the fun waxed fast and furious. We were not mistaken in our horse; the brute was all his looks indicated—and more. The battle only lasted some 15 minutes, but in that short space of time he called Into active use every resource of equine trickery and threw himself into every startling contortion that horse anatomy permits of. He bucked straight and sideways, and turned and fell, and reared and kicked, squealing again and again in that fierce, unholy manner, till it seemed impossible that the plucky red-haired rider could longer endure the awful back-wrenching strain. A fall, too, meant death, for the horse would have slashed him before he touched ground or struck with front feet as he lay. During the first 12 or 14 minutes of the fight that boy’s life was not worth the value of a cigarette; between rage and fear the horse was stark mad, and had there been the sign of an opening would have leaped headlong into the reputed Inferno a half a mile below. As the moments wore on and his whole repertoire of strength and strategy was worked through, without in the least unfixing his rider, the whiteeyed pony began to lose heart; it was the first time that any man had been so tenacious of grip, and gradually his leaps became weaker and less vicious. Then Curlew’s quirt and blood-seeking spurs urged him to more vigorous efforts, but even these could not much longer sustain the engagement. Dripping with blood and sweat, nearly dead with fatigue, he finally succumbed, and permitted himself to be guided by the rider, at will. A hearty cheer burst from th|e crowd, and Curlew, rather pale ankl weak, but ever smiling, was rapturously dragged from the saddle and carried into Dillon’s, an inert monument of glory to his memory and— demonstrative friends. After the hero, his worshippers, the antagonistic party, and all outsiders had been duly refreshed, which required some little time, we bent ourselves again to the matter in hand, and prepared to witness the second bout of the man against horse battle. There was almost as wide a difference of the two riders as between the bay and the buckskin. The South Valley champion was much shorter than Curlew, and better knit If I had not seen the confusing dexterity of the lanky, red-haired boy, I should have esteemed this the Ukeller man. His movements were alert and he showed much experience; in complexion almost black, with a bearded apd somewhat sinister face—“ Charley Rawlins, late av N’Mlxfco, an’ bad whin he's dhrlnkln,”’ as Dillon catalogued him. The buckskin pony remained in his downcast posture and allowed the New Mexican to saddle him unresistingly, merely cocking his hairy ears—one forward and the other back—and watching behind through the tail of. his rtltted eye. I was standing alongside old Joe during this peaceful overture, and noted the old man’s chuckle, grim and ominous. Charley led his mount out from the corral to the flat, and jamming his finely worked Mexican hat down over his eyes, vaulted cleanly to his seat. The yellow pony waked up immediately and took the buck, not wildly and ferooloualy, as the bay had done, but in a calm, matter-of-fact sort of way that convinced one it was his natural gait Just as another horse might have galloped or trotted, so did this boast buck, and for two blessed hours maintained the pace without a falter. Nor in all

that heart-breaking period did hto Mbeal progress exceed 100 yardsl It was most astonishing, not one superfluous movement was made;, he simply kept on and on, each jump being alost semicircular, that is, landing with his head where his tail had started from, and vice versa. This is what the cowpunchers call changing ends, and it Is not difficult to Imagine the effect of such a pro-, tracted merry-go-round sensation on the rider. The bucking was neither high nor fierce, but the strain of that continuous swirl must have been racking. There was one slight variation which the scrubby buckskin allowed himself in his system, though this was* of such nature as to be rather disconcerting to a rider with a head already far from steady. It was to turn in the air after the usual fashion, but instead of alighting on .stiffened legs, to fall clumsily on one side, the pony saving himself by bending his foreleg back under him. It was an ugly trick to evade, and the black New Mexican must have been clear grit to hold bls own so long. His face grew pallid and drawn, and after awhile his stomach revolted.

At the close of the second hour he was helpless; his will was still in the thing, but his body was limp and ineffective, and the blood slowly trickled from his nose and ears. The pony still worked with the monotonous regularity of a steam exhaust, and the end was unquestionably near. When it came, the man was sprawled to one side, and the horse immediately lapsed into his usual drooping attitude of watchful sleepiness. Some of us ran to assist Rawlins, who lay just ay he had fallen, too weak to rise. But he waved us back; his face was malignant with shame and anger, and distorted by pain; altogether, with the pallor and the blood-streaked beard, he was not an exhilarating sight. Rolling over to his side, he raised himself partially on an elbow, and before we could close on him had drawn his Colt's and fired. The big gun spoke sharply, and with a moan that was almost human the buckskin pony lurched heavily to the ground. We reached Rawlins In time to take the smoking revolver from his nerveless grasp; but as he fell back again, I heard him mutter thickly: "There, curse ye, y’ mud-skinned hell-hound! Ye'll wear no more men out!’’ The prostrate broncho-buster’s friends had taken him up, and Dillon was In the midst of a brilliant address, awarding with much ornate language "the purse to Curlew, when an Incident in the form of anti-climax took the floor from the speaker and wound up the sport with a hearty burst of goodnatured acclamation. I had the history of this incident afterward. It seems that the boys of the town —the juveniles, I mean—had organized and schemed to place an unregistered and unexpected entry in the contest; and their scheme was eminently successful—and amusing. The camp supported a little half-breed youth of about 12 years, a marvel In his love for and command over horses; he must have been born and reared upon their backs, so easily did he become them. It was this urchin, Pedro by name, who was elected to represent the younger faction in the riding. There was one difficulty that would have baffled most boys; no bad horse was forthcoming, but Pedro was so extremely indifferent as to the nature or build of bis mount that even this was an easy adjustment At the extreme upper end of the town was a bftcher’s cow corral, and in it confined a bunch of cattle new from the range; one of these, a great red and white 4-year-old steer, was selected, and Pedro eagerly started on his ride to fame. Dillon was getting well warmed to his much-prepared and patriotic oration, when Pedro and the frantic steer appeared, rushing down the pitch from the town above. There was an unrestrained howl from the assemblage, in which even Dillon joined, and the dirty, dare-devil brat shot out an answering grin from the careening back of his astonished steer. It was a thing to make the old gulch quiven with laughter. Some one had dressed the boy especially for the game; he had on a pair of heavy fringed, full-sized shape, at least eight inches too long for him, and only kept from entirely covering his feet by the shanks of a pair of huge Mexican spurs, all bells and bangles. His Impish face was surmounted by a 5-lnch sombrero, a heavy quirt In one hand and In the other a coil of rawhide lariat, which was looped only over the steer’s horns. And how that animal was twisting himself, head down and tail upl But the boy clung like a barnacle, by what means I have no conjecture. It is well known that a steer has no withers, that he can buck through the elnches of any saddle, and a cowboy without a saddle Is not formidable. Yet there was that lean youth heathen, hampered by the awkward trappings they had put on him, perched on bls arching, ungirded steed with all the pert composure of a tomtit on a pump handle, which Is old Joe's simile. "Cum ass av that, ye young limb,” shouted Dillon, as the steer rushed madly by us; the boy waited, however, till the crowd was passed, and then, skillfully twitching his rope from the steer’s horns, slid harmlessly to the ground. He could scarcely walk for the grotesque accouterments, but when he did reach us, the boys greeted him riotously. "Give the money to the kid,” said Curley, laconically. "That’s a trick I can’t do,” and midst clamors of commendation and assent the half-breed urchin was given the purse. You cannot expect a doctor to fata an anti-treat society.