A Size 44 Coat and Size 4 Hat
The perfect sizes for a horseshoer.
I wrote this story a few years back as part of an ill-fated idea I had about sending out a newsletter style publication in three parts. They were all quite long and as a result I suspect not many people read them. This story is true about a cowboy I knew. I think about him now and then and wonder what happened to him. John was the real deal and nothing like what you see on Costner’s version of Montana or the cowboy hat-wearing politicians in government. I hope he is well and is doing what he loves.
First, let me state for the record, I am no cowboy. I get along with most horses because I have worked hard to understand them, and I have had some great teachers, both human and equine. They seem to like me, the horses that is, or at least tolerate me, which is a necessary attribute if you want to be a farrier and not end up crippled or killed. The secret, like most things in life, is communication. In the equine world, communication is body language and eye contact, and it is subtle. They are large, immensely strong animals who can hurt you badly even by accident, so it’s imperative you learn to listen and understand what they are telling you.
Second, for the record, I am a terrible rider. Can I sit a horse well enough to get up into the mountains? Sure, but when we go, we never go faster than a walk. I need the horse to take me to the top of the mountain. Once there, I’ll let him graze while I hunt or fish, share my potato chips at lunch with him, and then he can take me down the mountain again when I’m done. No fuss, no muss. Being my mountain transportation would be a good gig for any horse.
As I mentioned earlier, I’ve had some great teachers, and the funny thing is some of them had no idea how much they helped me learn about horses. This story is about just one of them.
During the summer of 2005, I went to a “new to me” ranch owned by a wealthy gentleman from Billings to shoe some horses, and there met the young foreman. John was a tall drink of water with strawberry-blond hair and bright blue eyes that would make the girls swoon. He wore a black Resistol cowboy hat that was just dirty and sweat stained enough to be authentic. What I mean is, you can buy distressed hats like that believe it or not, but this man’s hat earned the look the hard way. Faded jeans with a Copenhagen can circle on his back pocket; long sleeved brush popper shirt with frayed cuffs and worn thin in the elbows; and cowboy boots that had seen better days completed the ensemble. The kid was nothing but muscle, sinew, and bone, with hands too big for his arms and legs too bowed for his age.
He was a friendly sort and shook my hand with a smile while saying how glad he was I was here because the owner of the place wanted him to shoe the ranch horses, but he had no interest in it.
“No offense,” he said, “but my granddad told me shoeing horses was for someone with a strong back and a weak mind!”
I howled at that one. John and I were going to get along fine.
He sent me to park my rig by the hitching rail that was placed in front of a dilapidated, rusty tin-roofed barn. As I set up, I had a closer look around. The corral system was connected to the barn in the rear. To be honest, calling it a corral system was a bit of a misnomer. It was a big kidney shaped corral. There were no smaller working or separating corrals, which was a huge red flag for me. How would we catch an uncooperative horse in this huge space?
I could see the herd loafing out behind the barn through the open sliding doors. They were standing in a big clump, lazily swishing flies off each other with their tails and ignoring me. John walked up and pointed at a tall hammer-headed black gelding.
“See that black saddlebred? I need him done today for sure. He has crappy feet and I need to start putting some miles on him. I figure a pro like yourself can figure out how to keep shoes on him. We can always do the others another time if it takes too long.
He glanced at me with a sheepish expression from under the brim of his hat.
“I don’t know any of the horses yet,” I told him. “The owner said they were all pretty good cow horses.”
John spit a little tobacco juice onto the dusty ground and winked. “I’m not sure I’m buying that,” he added as he led me into the barn.
You could feel a nervous shiver run through the herd. Something was up and they knew it. They ran to the far end of the corral, their feet clacking on the flinty rocks raising a cloud of fine, tan colored dust while they milled about. John grabbed a halter and lead rope and went out the back door dragging open a large, green, steel panel that was tied to a post with baling twine. This was typical ranch engineering. The twine acted as hinges for the panel which served as the gate.
“You guard the gate, and I’ll see what I can do here,” John mumbled as he headed towards the herd.
Horses are herd animals and instinctively know you don’t want to be the horse in front, closest to the “danger.” John got within ten feet and they scattered. Some went to his right and some to his left leaving him coughing in a cloud of tan powder that he tried to wave away with his hat. It was comical but there was no time to laugh. They were headed for the open gate and me! I dragged the gate closed as fast as I could, thus signaling the start of the rodeo.
John approached and cut the black from the herd. The horse bolted back to the herd. He tried walking quietly amongst the herd tip-toeing his way toward the black. The rest of the horses now knew who John was after and tolerated him sliding by. But the black also knew who John was after so he snorted and spooked sending everyone else into a mad dash across the corral. At this point it sure looked like the horses were having fun running away from the human!
John hung the halter on a fence post and walked around with just the lead rope in his hand. That trick almost worked because he did manage to touch the black’s neck and start to ease the lead rope over it’s neck but one of the herd let out with a nervous snort and the black bolted again.
“I don’t have any grain or horse cake or I would try bribing him,” John said over his shoulder as he watched the herd clump up at the other side of the corral. “Dang it anyway. I’ll get my rope.”
John strode to the gate and climbed over. Tossing the halter and lead rope onto a big wooden peg stuck in the wall of the barn. He opened a side door. I could see tack hanging and a couple saddles inside. Seconds later he came out with a well-used lariat.
“I guess we will have to do this the old-fashioned way.” He laughed, “I’ll work on the catching thing when you aren’t here waiting to go to work.”
Climbing back over the gate, the cowboy adjusted his loop and sauntered to the herd that blasted away to his right. The black was at the back and John took a couple quick steps to cut him off as he raced after the herd. The black obliged and turned back, isolating himself and making for an easier target. Realizing his mistake, the black tried to bum rush the cowboy but John gave two quick twirls of his rope and let fly. The rope snaked out and the loop fell over the horse’s head. John tightened the rope around his neck. It made a sound like a zipper as it tightened and the black stopped dead in his tracks standing stock still. This was unexpected, at least to me.
John walked up to the horse keeping slack in the rope. I could see he was not making eye contact. His head was down, and he moved slowly. I realized he was being polite and respectful in horse language. The black was standing tall, ears erect and looking away like John wasn’t even there. John stood even with the horse’s front shoulder within arm’s reach but not touching him.
He was talking to the horse in a low quiet tone. Then I saw the horse’s ear closest to the cowboy turn towards him. He was listening to what the man said or more likely how he was saying it. The black wasn’t standing so upright now. He let out a heavy sigh and shook his whole body to relieve tension but also showered John with a cloud of corral dust. He lowered and turned his head towards the man giving a little knicker while John stroked the black’s muzzle and forehead. He loosened the loop of his lariat and pulled it up to the blacks’ ears. Then he formed a loop with the standing end placed it over the horse’s nose fashioning what is known as a war bridle that functioned as a halter.
They stood for a moment making sure they both agreed this arrangement was going to be alright and then the two of them walked into the barn and out to the hitching rack. I saw that the rest of the herd, now that the danger was over, was already back to swishing flies.
“I thought this might happen.” John said as he replaced the war bridle with a proper halter, “all these horses acted like they had never been caught up with a halter before. The last guy here was a roper, I’ve competed against him a few times. He is a little rough on horses. No patience, ya know?”
John produced a brush and gave the horse’s legs and flanks a quick going over. These were all the places I would be rubbing up against while working. I appreciated the effort to clean them up and so would Kerry. I tracked enough dirt and horsehair around the house as it was.
“He probably roped a horse each time he needed one,” John continued, “and they learned to just stand still when they felt the rope on their neck. It works just fine I guess but what happens if you don’t have a rope handy? I’ll never understand why people won’t take the time to train a horse properly. Everyone has their own ways I guess.”
It occurred to me while watching John brush off this horse, that I had just received a crash course in equine groundwork, and I was getting paid to learn it all!
“If you don’t mind,” John said, “I’ll start off holding him and then if he is doing OK, I’ll tie him loosely to the rail.”
If I didn’t mind? Most folks didn’t care what I minded and were never going to bother to find out! Young John was a hand, as they say out here, meaning he knew what he was doing with livestock and ranch work but was also a good guy.
By the time I got to the black’s third foot without incident John was sitting on my tailgate relaxing as we talked about horses and hunting while I worked. The black, tied to the cross rail, just hung his head with his eyes closed.
We had two others to do, and each one needed to be roped but once caught they were as good as gold.
“I appreciate your patience,” John said as I handed him the bill. “I’ll be working with them and get ‘em lined out for the next time.”
“Well, I appreciate your thoughtfulness with me and the horses,” I replied. “There are lots of folks who would have pointed to the corral and told me to come up to the house when I was done.”
“Really?” His eyebrows shot up. “Why do you put up with it?”
I hesitated for a moment. An excellent question. Why did I put up with it?
“Strong back, weak mind,” I replied with a wink.
John laughed out loud and clapped me on the shoulder as he climbed the porch steps of his trailer house to get the check book.
Make sure you hit the Like and Restack buttons! I need the encouragement!
Nice to see you still call me friend with some of the things I subjected you to.