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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Long Journey Home
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The breaking of the colt was to start immediately. Schneebarger had apparently planned it that way, waiting until his hired man was available.
“You vork mit him a liddle at first,” suggested the farmer. “He knows you from dat last summer.”
John was somewhat at a loss as to how to begin the education of a workhorse. A horse is a horse, but one may be far different from another, not only in size, color, temperament, and body build, but in its ultimate use.
At this time and place, a man might breed a mare to produce the kind of foal he needed. Bred to a light-boned, trim stallion, she might produce a carriage horse with considerable style and grace. To a medium-sized saddle horse, an animal useful for riding, roping, or herding cattle, a “cow-horse.” The same mare, bred to a heavy draft horse of the European cold-weather type would produce a “work horse” … Big footed, hairy, muscular, this animal would never excel at speed, but could pull massive loads in harness. A good mare could even be bred to a jack donkey to produce mules, a sterile hybrid with some of the best qualities of both parents.
“Oh, yah,” said Hans as he turned away. “Before you start dat, mebbes you could t'row de cow ober the fence some hay?”
“Yes, sir, I'll do that.”
He was often amused at the German's stubborn attempts to speak English. This was a problem which he could understand, having had it thrust on himself at an early age. He smiled as he visualized Old White Horse attempting to force her tutelage on someone like Hans Schneebarger. Hans was apparently having
a lot more difficulty with the transition than his wife, Helga. And Little Hans would probably have little or no accent at all.
John himself felt that his English was pretty good, compared to some of his classmates. He had spoken it exclusively for several years. He still had Lakota, of course, and had picked up a little Kiowa, and rudimentary Cherokee words and expressions. Some of these, such as okeh, indicating agreement, had been adopted by whites almost without their realizing it.
 
Now John stood looking at the yearling colt, already the size of a good buffalo runner. A gelding, already neutered when he was small, should be no problem to handle. Hans was gentle with his horses, and his behavior would probably be transmitted to the youngster as confidence in humans. The colt would learn by example.
Hans had no patience with anyone who would mistreat an animal. John had once seem him soundly thrash a man who, on the road to Lawrence, had been beating a horse. The stranger's wagon was stuck in mud and, instead of trying to free it by lightening the load or applying leverage to the wheels, the man was applying a heavy whip. Schneebarger stopped his own team and jumped from the wagon to pull the other man from his seat. With hands the size of slabs of bacon, the German cuffed him soundly, jerked the whip from the man's grasp and tossed it into the mud, followed by the culprit himself. Then, as the man floundered, yelling and cursing, Hans motioned to the startled John to take the reins of the stranger's team. While John handled the horses, Hans stepped into the mud and applied his powerful muscles to the trapped wheel. With a sucking noise the wagon rocked free, and the German slogged back onto the road, ignoring his victim in the mud. He motioned John back to his own wagon.
“You drive,” he said.
Hans himself sat on the tailgate as they moved on, scraping mud from his boots and clothing with a stick. Nothing was said for a mile or so, and finally, anger cooled somewhat, he spoke again.
“A man kin holler ven he needs help,” he philosophized. “A dumb baste cannot.”
This statement had seemed to need no comment, and John made none.
Now he smiled to himself, remembering. Already, he could feel that his medicine with this colt was good. It would only be a matter of familiarizing the animal with the routine of harness and pulling.
John began by tying the animal, already broke to halter, in one of the stalls. He dumped a bucket of oats into the feed box and began to rub his hands over the neck and shoulders while the colt ate. He whispered in the ears, words of comfort in Lakota, breathed in the animal's nostrils … . The colt continued to chew contentedly on the oats. Confidence, pleasant association …
On the next day's session, John took some pieces of harness with rings and buckles and fastened them together as a teaching tool. He had never done this before, but reasoned that a workhorse must learn to have straps and buckles and metal rings dragged over and around and beneath its body. Again, he let the colt see and smell the contraption before he began to drag it over the animal's back and down the hip and stifle. The colt stiffened, ears erect, but then resumed eating. In only a few sessions, it was possible to toss a harness across hip and shoulder and buckle it.
Placing the bit in the colt's mouth was another matter. The metallic taste and unfamiliar shape of the snaffle seemed an obstacle. John was sure that once in place, in the proper space behind the teeth, it would not be uncomfortable. His people often used metal bits, and he had seen them used at The Oaks … . (A painful jab of sweet memory—now lost—flitted over him.) He considered using a thong as a war bridle, but decided against it.
Instead, he obtained from Helga a small jar with a little sorghum molasses. A smell, a thin smear of the sweet thick syrup over the snaffle … By the third session, the colt would trot eagerly toward the bit to take it in his mouth.
In two weeks, John could drive the harnessed colt around the barnyard, pulling a log on a chain. He was ready to place the colt in team harness with a more experienced animal to finish his training.
“Yah! Ist goot!” marveled Hans.
 
A few days later, Hans called to John as he was harnessing the team to the cultivator. A neighbor had stopped by.
“John! Heinemann, here, likes de vay you handle dat colt. He wonders could you mebbe help him mit vun colt of his?”
“Well … I'll try. If it's okay with you, of course.”
“Shure.”
“What's the problem?”
“Not sure, John,” said Heinemann. “He's spooky. Fights anything you try. Oh, yes, he's a saddle horse. You have any experience with them?”
John smiled to himself. Nearly all of his experience was with horses that were ridden. The training of the young work horse had been new.
“Some,” he said aloud. “I'll see what I can do.”
“Good. Come on over when you get a chance.”
“Ven de work's all done, I send him ober,” said Schneebarger.
All three chuckled. This was a common oft-repeated remark, never taken seriously. An inside joke, which was understood by all. The work was never all done on a frontier farm or ranch. It isn't, even now. Something always beckons, and part of the management was—and is—the selection of the most urgent among those chores that need attention.
“Maybe Sunday?” asked John, with a glance at Hans. The Germans tried
to observe the sabbath within their ability to defer some of the more major jobs. Some things
must
be done daily, of course. “Yah! Ist goot, ef you want, John.”
 
The colt in question was a stocky, well-built two-year-old, recently gelded and completely undisciplined. He'd make a pretty good horse, John thought. This was the useful sort of animal sometimes referred to as a “chub,” a stout animal that could be used as a cow horse or to work in double harness to pull a light wagon. Sometimes, both. He'd probably have made a good buffalo runner, John thought.
Just now, the animal stood in a small corral, ears erect and attention riveted on the newcomer. Everything about him radiated fear and suspicion.
“You raise him, Mr. Heinemann?” John asked.
“No, no … I just bought him from a trader. Looks like he could be dangerous.”
That would explain a lot. No telling what the horse's background or experience had been. It was not impossible that this was a wild colt, recently captured in a horse hunt on the prairie farther west, still partly unsettled. With the buffalo gone, wild horses had proliferated. There were still a few wild horse hunters capturing the animals for resale to settlers, because good horses were always in demand.
No matter his origin, this colt would be a handful. He had possibly been mistreated, probably been handled roughly, and the distrust he now had for the human race shone plainly in the wide-set eyes.
“Well,” said John cautiously, “we'll see.”
He tried to think of some of the tricks he had seen his father use. There was much medicine involved, a communication and mingling of the spirits of man and horses. Yellow Bull had had a special medicine bag, containing a few items that he used sometimes. A “chestnut” from the foreleg of an old stallion, the odd misplaced toenail at the knee which is a remnant of ages past … A grayish lump of dried “milt,” the bit of tissue found sometimes on the tongue of a newborn foal, its purpose unknown. Tradition has it that the milt teaches the foal to suckle, even before birth. Regardless, such objects carry the medicine which had allowed Yellow Bull to become the horseman that he was … . They carry primitive spirit of the horse, present since Creation.
Yellow Bull's horse-medicine bag had accompanied him to the Other Side on the burial scaffold. John could certainly have used some spirit-help now, and hoped to remember some of the skills he had seen his father and other men use in a horse's training … Skills not entirely dependent on the medicine of milt and chestnuts from an old stallion.
“Just leave me with him for a while to get acquainted,” he told Heinemann.
“Go ahead!” Heinemann shrugged and turned away. “There's a rope on the post, there. Stuff in the tack room if you get that far.”
Heinemann didn't seem as if he had a lot of confidence.
“Thanks!” John called after him.
Then, he wondered if his thanks had sounded sarcastic. He turned his attention to the colt, who still stood watching him.
“Okay, fella,” he said softly. “I'm comin' into your camp, but I mean you no harm.”
He crawled between the poles of the corral and stood upright, moving very slowly. The horse's ears flattened against the head and his nostrils flared.
John stood very still. He must not show fear. Especially just now.
T
he average cowboy would have roped the horse, snubbed him to a post, and by brute force and awkwardness forced the creature to submit. The very term “breaking” of a horse implies dominance over the animal being trained.
Maybe a more accurate word for the manner of readying a horse for use among John's people would have been “taming.” This is not to say that there was no force involved in their methods. It is necessary to exert control over other creatures at times for their own or for mutual good. The American Indian would not have become the finest horseman in the world without this. In a group of animals within any species, some exert dominance over others. This is necessary for the common good.
But in the case of the unusual relationship between the American Indian and his horse, the key factor is the closeness of the partnership. Among the plains tribes, a child might literally ride before he could walk, as Little Bull had.
A warrior or hunter might picket a favorite horse or two next to his lodge for safety against theft, or for extra care and special feeding in winter. Among the Pawnees, a few horses were often kept inside the big earth-bermed lodges of the extended family.
All of these customs led to a closeness of spirit between man and horse. With this background, when the time comes for the taming and training, it requires mostly communication. The necessary ingredient is to make it easier to do what is wanted than to do the opposite.
In this case, however, it would be an uphill battle. For this horse, nearly every contact with man had been in an unpleasant situation. His probable capture as a wild horse fairly recently, the struggle against ropes, the castration, the confinement … Now the animal stood, suspicious, expectant, probably wondering what unpleasantness was about to happen next. He might even decide to try a preemptive strike at this new two-legged creature.
John began to hum softly, soothingly, as he had seen his father do. It's not the words, Yellow Bull had explained, it's the song … . A soft, rhythmic cadence, half-spoken, half-sung, a reassuring song that joins the spirits of man and horse.
I mean you no harm, my brother … . We can search together … . I will show you … Our spirits mix well, with no harm to each other.
The horse paused, curious. He could not hear the song at this distance, and was frustrated. Something was happening, and he did not understand. The situation must call for some sort of action. The animal broke into an easy lope, circling the corral. It might have appeared, as the horse rounded the curve of the fence, that he was rushing or charging at the man almost in his path. It was a challenge, but one to which John must not respond. He must show no fear, but equally, no aggression.
This is your camp … . I have entered it … . I mean no harm, but here I stand … .
The horse barely turned aside as he brushed past. It was the critical moment to show no fear. The animal's shoulder bumped against John's, and he held his ground, not avoiding nor inviting. It was an expected contact, a test. He had often been blocked harder by an opposing defensive back. In that case, though, he could respond. Here he must remain neutral, nonresponsive. The horse rushed on, circling the arena. John waited.
See … There is no harm to either of us. You are still here; so am I. Come again … .
This time there was no contact, but a slight slowing of the canter as the horse passed. John was certain that he saw a questioning look in the big dark eye as it passed. He moved a step farther into the arena during this circuit. The horse must change its course slightly to avoid collision. It did so, without seeming to notice.
See? You have done what I ask, and no harm comes to either of us. Is it not good?
After a few such passes, the horse stopped and stood on the other side of the enclosure, waiting. John moved very slowly, taking a step toward the animal, pause a little, stop and wait. He was within a few feet when the horse could stand it no longer, and bolted away to begin the circling again. This time, only a few circuits and then the stop, in another place. Patiently, John approached again.
We are going to do this, my brother, no matter how long it takes.
This time, only a couple of circuits and a stop. And this time, John was within a pace or two before the animal broke and ran. After a few such tries, he was able to touch the sweaty neck. Of course, the startled horse flared away, but soon stopped.
At the next touch, the hand was allowed to remain there a few moments. When the horse moved on, John removed his hat and wiped his own sweat from his brow.
Then another touch to the neck, a gentle stroke. He took a step back and extended the hand toward the horse's nose. The animal smelled, actually extended its head for a better sniff at the mixture of sweat from man and horse.
Ah, you see? Our spirits blend well, no? And still, no harm comes. We can work together, you and I … .
By the time shadows lengthened, John could pass his hands over most of the upper portion of the colt's body. He had breathed into the nostrils, whispered his song into the ears, and could lead the colt with a short rope around its neck.
Heinemann returned to the corral.
“How's it goin', John?”
“Pretty good.”
The man glanced at the horse and back to John, a puzzled look on his face.
“You ain't bucked him out yet?”
“Didn't figure to. We've been gettin' acquainted.”
“Well, now, John …”
There was plain doubt in Heinemann's voice.
“He's come a long way,” John said cautiously.
John walked slowly over to the colt, stroked his neck, and petted his nose. The horse rubbed its face against his shirt and stood, eyes half-closed, obviously content.
“Well, I'll be damned!” Heinemann exclaimed.
At the sound of the man's voice, the horse came alert, cautious, defensive. John patted him comfortingly, and he relaxed again, still cautious.
Before he left that evening, John had placed a halter on the horse and had removed it, and was able to wipe a saddle blanket across the animal's back.
“I'll come back tomorrow evening,” he promised.
 
Within a week, John was riding the colt under saddle, swinging a lariat, putting the animal into a walk, trot, and canter.
“I wouldn't have believed it!” marveled Heinemann.
“Yah, like I said, dis John ist good mit der horses!” Hans Schneebarger chuckled.
 
His reputation spread. Another farmer with a problem horse, and yet another. Schneebarger viewed all of this with mixed emotions. He could bask in the reflected glory of having “discovered” this talent, but it also had a tendency to interfere with the work on his own place. Finally, he laid down the ground rules.
“Yust on Sundays,” he cautioned. “Mebbe sometimes after supper if I don' need you here.”
“Yes, sir. But … Could I bring a horse here to work with in the evenings? Dave Jones has one—”
“Shure!” interrupted Hans. “Dat's fine. I yust need you ven I need you.”
By the summer's end John had tamed or trained several animals. His reputation was growing. This led to talk with horsemen, horse traders, and cowboys who happened by, and in this way he learned of the contest.
“Over by Topeka,” the trader told him. “You'd ought to go over. They'll have a buckout, ropin', mebbe some steer wrasslin' …”
“What's that?”
“Jest what it says, I guess. Somebody said there's a nigger from some big ranch in Oklahoma that does it with his teeth.”
“Aw, c'mon!”
“No, really. He calls it bulldoggin', on account of the way he bites the critter on the nose.”
“You seen him do this?”
“No, but I talked to fellas that did. Let's see … What was that nigger's name? Bill somethin' … Packett? No that ain't it. Pickett! Yeah. Bill Pickett. The 101 Ranch … Miller Brothers. They've started some kind of a Wild West Show.”
“A show?”
“Yeah. You know about Buffalo Bill's Wild West Circus?”
As a matter of fact, John did. Some of his father's friends, in fact, had worked for Buffalo Bill Cody, riding with painted faces on horses painted as if for war, whooping and circling the arena for the pleasure of the crowds. His
father had frowned on such nonsense, but some prominent leaders of the plains tribes had joined Cody's circus as entertainers.
“Heard of it, yes,” said John.
“Well, you'd ought to go over there this Sunday,” insisted the trader. “Maybe they'll give you a job playin' Injun.”
The man slapped his knee in amusement at his own joke, and then paused, a little embarrassed.
“You are Injun, ain't you? I heard your ways with a hoss was some of that Injun ‘medicine.'”
“Maybe so.”
“No offense, son. But I just thought … Well, hell, go over and watch if you want to. It's nothin' to me either way.”
John felt that the talkative horse trader had backed himself into a corner and was uncomfortable, then talked himself in deeper as he tried to talk his way out.
“Maybe I will go over,” John said mildly.
The other man relaxed a little.
“Good,” he said. “I reckon you'd like it.”

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