The Story of Blue and Other Horses

ARIZONA HIGHWAYS LEGEND

"HEY, MA, LET'S EAT" FRONT COVER AN INTIMATE STUDY OF THE CACTUS WREN FAMILY BY THE CROCKETTS.

THE STORY OF BLUE AND OTHER HORSES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 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OF SUN AND SAND

The years come, the years go; but the sun goes on forever. The marks of man's journey here in the Southwest are erased by the elements. Maybe in the very end there will only be the sun warming the sand. If these sound like unhappy thoughts to start off a bright, shiny new year, we do not mean for them to sound that way. As a matter of fact, we think this is a rather grand old world (true, it is coming loose in the seams in places, but it is always fun to go along for the ride).

We always start thinking about mankind when we read a feature like the one on "Point of Pines" that the talented Allen Reed has gotten together for us this issue. This tells of the new archeological excavation under the direction of Dr. Emil Haury of the University of Arizona up in one of the cooler and more remote parts of the San Carlos Indian Reservation. Thoughtful and ardent students have been digging in the clay and sand there now for several years. Long ago where there was once a prosperous community, now there is only silence and sun. We wonder what happened? And will some day some bright young scholars dig in our ruins and ask the same question?

One of the reasons we think ours is a wonderful world is that Divine Providence saw fit to send birds to people it and bring it song and color. What could be a better way, then, for us to start out a new year and a new volume than with a closeup of a family of Cactus Wrens as our cover? Our state bird is a sun lover and a desert lover. If you would like to learn more of the Cactus Wren, we have a feature, well illustrated, within.

Speaking of sun lovers, we are pleased to tell you about the trailerites who are making things hum up and down the Colorado River. We regret that we couldn't mention all the trailer camps and lodges that dot the river on both sides from Yuma almost to Hoover Dam, but we can assure you there are accommodations for every taste and that if you like loafing and fishing and just naturally taking it easy in the sun (trailer fashion) it would be well for you to consider the banks of the Colorado. Plenty of sun, plenty of fishing, plenty of swimming and boating and folks to call your neighbors. . . R.C.

WHAT'S NEW Arizona SUN

HAPPENINGS IN THE SUN: The Phoenix Open Golf Championship will be held Feb. 4-7. Here's a chance to see the cream of the professional circuit perform.

Things get sort a busy around these parts in February. The Tucson Open Golf Tourney takes place Feb. 4-7; Yuma's lively Silver Spur Rodeo keeps things humming down in Yuma County, Feb. 13-14, while Tucson's "La Fiesta de Los Vaqueros," the Old Pueblo's big and handsome rodeo, with all the Western trimmings, explodes Feb. 20-22. About the middle of the month the Cleveland Indians come out of winter hibernation to start spring tuneups in Tucson, the New York Giants set up their sunshine quarters in Phoenix, the Chicago Cubs in Mesa and, maybe or maybe not, the Baltimore Orioles begin cavorting in Yuma.

From Feb. 21 to Feb. 28, the Desert Botanical Gardens, halfway between Tempe and Phoenix, stages its 6th annual cactus show. Here you'll find a whole desertful of the strange, exotic and fantastic lined up for your pleasure.

Just in case you are planning to come out this way in March and April, we'll note a few later happenings: Mar. 7, Dons Club Trek to the Superstition Mountains; Mar. 19-21, World's Championship Rodeo in Phoenix and the biggest dang-busted horse parade with pretty riders you ever saw in your life; Mar. 25-27, Rawhide Roundup, Mesa; Mar. 24-27, Annual Livestock Show in Tucson; April 3-4, Annual Rodeo, Douglas; April 5-9, Ride of the Desert Caballeros, Wickenburg; April 9-11, Festival of Fine Arts, Tucson; and Easter Sunrise Services at Grand Canyon and other places in the state.

NOTES: While there were 17,000 registered cattle brands in Arizona in 1917, and 14,000 in 1951, the Arizona Brand Book of 1953 lists not quite 10,000 registered brands for the state. Maybe the spreads are getting fewer but bigger.

Life insurance in force in Arizona in 1951 amounted to $666,000,000. This amount jumped to $878,000,000 in 1952, an increase of 31.8%, the largest increase, percentage-wise, of any state in the Union. We don't know what that means but it sounds important.

FRONT COVER

"HEY, MA, LET'S EAT" BY HARRY L. AND RUTH CROCKETT. The young Cactus Wrens spend about two weeks developing in the nest, during which time the parents bring quantities of insects for them to eat. Both the adults and young are perfectly at home in the mass of spines that bristle in the cholla cactus. Photograph was made with a Speed Graphic camera, Ektar f.4.7 127 mm. lens, 1/100th at f.11. Flash, a 5B bulb in a bowl reflector, was 22 inches away from the subjects, released by remote control.

Blue was a big, stout, gentle horse. He was in my mount one fall. He never kicked when he was shod and never at any time had he attempted to pitch. Then one morning the big blue horse came up with a kink in his back. Matter of fact, the saddle cocked up so far behind any one of the ranch dogs could have crawled under the skirts and taken shelter from the weather, for it was raining and cold. It was the day before Thanksgiving; Bill Young and I were going into Globe. We were to take the train at Rice, and Carl Larsen rode with us to take our ponies back to the ranch. Never on the proud side, I led Blue from the saddle shed to the gate, a distance no self-respecting cowboy would ever make on foot. At the gate the kink in Blue's back was still obvious so I wooled him around a bit, tried to get his mind on other things. Blue didn't really pitch when I mounted, he only crow-hopped a bit, for the big blue horse was smart.

Had he really come unwound he could not have kept his footing, for the ground was as slick as ice and Blue had no desire to wind up on his side. At intervals he crow-hopped on the twelve mile ride to Rice, to the amusement of my friends. And since I was still right-side up when we got down to Rice I enjoyed the ride, myself. I thought it was the weather, for even a gentle pony will pitch on cold mornings just to warm himself a bit. "That gentle ol' thing," said Bill, "a-tryin' to put on a show like that-whatever got into his head?" I went East that fall but at intervals I had word of Blue. Coming back from the Trading Post at Rice one night Carl got down to open the reservation gate, and Blue wheeled and kicked at Carl, kicked at him with both feet. But my friend, the Swede, was quick. Blue had never kicked at anyone before that they could recollect. Then an amusing letter came from Guy Sisson in camp at the Jackson place. Blue had bucked Newt Robinson off; Newt was roping off Blue, they were branding in the This is a chapter from Ross Santee's new book, "Lost Pony Tracks," published by Charles Scribner's Sons, $3.95. The author of "Hardrock and Silver Sage," "The Bubbling Spring," and "Apache Land," in his new book gives an intimate portrait of the Western range as it was some twenty-five years ago. This isn't glorified horse opera, the bang-bang, shoot-'em-up Western, but a book of stories that tells of the everyday life of the cowboy, a hard life full of stories and full of fun. Ross Santee knows whereof he writes. He was a horse wrangler up in Gila County, Arizona, with a true artist's eye and ear to appreciate the life around him. "Lost Pony Tracks" is a distinguished addition to western Americana and another fine book by author-artist Santee.

corral. Since it isn't often a cowboy has a chance to see a boss unloaded, Guy expanded at some length. He described in detail each jump the blue horse made and Newt's various postures before Blue spilled the pack. Guy also said that Blue, while starting a little late in life, might make the rodeo circuit yet, for when he pitched with Newt, Blue really came unwound. Newt added a brief bit, too-I could have the big blue horse with welcome when I came back that spring. Then only a little later another letter came saying Newt was in bed with an injured hip.

Newt had been range branding on Blue when the wreck occurred. Newt remembered roping the calf, then he had blanked out for a time. He didn't remember Blue pitching with him; but when Newt finally woke, Blue was grazing. The calf was quiet, too, since he was almost choked to death. Newt was on the ground and his lass rope had taken a half hitch around his leg. Newt managed to brand the calf. When he mounted, Blue stood quietly, for Newt had to crawl aboard. Newt rode to the ranch. He was taken to town in the car where the doctor put him to bed. But he was up and riding again, and his usual cheerful self, when I came back that spring. Blue was in the rough string.

We often speculated about the big blue horse, as to how he got that way. For days at a time he was a good cow horse and gentle, but he could never be trusted. Let some little thing go wrong, or get in a tight, and Blue would go to pitching; he would wheel and kick at a man on the ground without any provocation. Usually when a horse goes bad you can trace it back to either the ignorance or cruelty of some cowboy.

Happy Jack was an exception, too; he had been a gentle cow horse, hadn't pitched since he was a bronc. Then one day, for no apparent reason, he bucked a rider off, and the rider took considerable ribbing. A short time later it happened again. But Happy never kicked or tried to hurt a man on the ground. He was easy to shoe. One of the boys said he figgered Happy Jack just got tired of punchin' cows, for any time a cowboy tied onto a big steer with Happy Jack, Happy pitched-and how! Happy, gentle ol' cow horse that he was, finally wound up in the rough string.

Every cow outfit of any size has its rough string; and to me the horses that make up the rough string, and the peeler who rides them, are the most interesting things about a cow outfit. The rough string is made up of broncs, young horses, and old outlaw or spoiled ponies that the average waddie either can't or won't ride. The peeler who rides them usually draws a few more dollars a month than the average waddie; and he not only rides these wild devils, he does the work of a regular hand. It is usually more a matter of pride than any money involved with the peeler. I have always been curious as to why some ponies do the things they do. In discussing Blue with a peeler one day, he shook his head and laughed. "Mebbe I'm givin' the horse the worst of it, but horses are all like humans in a way. What makes some of them go bad is often hard to figger out; might as well say what makes a wildcat wild an' let it go at that."

But we knew, in Pebbles' case, it went back to the peeler who broke him. Pebbles was a dark bay, as was his brother, High Noon. Some of the boys said that even as a bronc Pebbles never even humped his back until he was gigged with the spurs. It seems there was a family of girls who lived at the saw mill on the mountain about a mile below the horse camp; since the peeler was "buildin' a stack" to one of them, each evening he would ride that way and give his gal a show. In no time it didn't take the spurs to make the pony pitch, and these exhibitions the peeler put on for his gal evidently soured Pebbles as far as riders were concerned.

who lived at the saw mill on the mountain about a mile below the horse camp; since the peeler was "buildin' a stack" to one of them, each evening he would ride that way and give his gal a show. In no time it didn't take the spurs to make the pony pitch, and these exhibitions the peeler put on for his gal evidently soured Pebbles as far as riders were concerned.

There were plenty of cowboys who could ride the horse and scratch him every jump he made. Pebbles knew it too, so he always played a waiting game. Most outlaw horses will buck when the rider tops them off; Pebbles seldom did. Easy to handle on the ground, he was known to go for days and even weeks waiting to catch his rider off guard. When the dust cleared the peeler was usually on the ground with both hands full of dirt.

One fall, Jess Tig had Pebbles in his string. Jess knew the horse by reputation, he'd ridden the big bay for most a month and Pebbles hadn't pitched. Jess liked the pony too; he had more bottom and could do more work than any two horses in his string. One night Jess spoke to a waddie, "Mebbe he's give it up; I've rode him most a month."

"Could be," the waddie replied, "but it's happened before. Pebbles knows you're a rider." It happened a few nights later.

It had been an all-day ride; there had been no change of horses at noon and all of our ponies were dinked. Jess had ridden Pebbles through the big gate at the water corral at the lower ranch. Jess had turned to speak to a puncher behind him and Pebbles, sensing Jess a little off balance, went to pitching with him. And it was only by pulling all the leather he could find that he managed to stay aboard; Jess was a rider, too.

On one fall work there were two rough strings out. Pebbles was in Lockhausen's string. When Lock rode the horse for a couple of weeks and Pebbles didn't even hump his back, Lock let down his guard a little and grew a trifle careless.

Lock was on the drive that morning. Shorty Caraway, the foreman, and the Pecos Kid, the other rough string rider, were at the holdup. When they heard the rocks begin to roll Pecos thought a steer was coming off the hill. "It's Pebbles," said Shorty, "abuckin' with that kid." For each jump the big horse made as he came off the hill started another small avalanche of rocks. It's rough and bushy up in there; they couldn't see; they could only hear the ride. Shorty and Pecos had started up the canyon to see if Lock was still right-side up when here came Pebbles on the dead-run without saddle or bridle. But Shorty roped the horse.

Lock was unconscious when they found him but he was still in the saddle although upside down, his face buried in the rocks. Nor had he lost a stirrup, both feet were firmly planted there.

Pecos got water from a seep spring not far away and it was only a little while until Lock woke. He said he could make it into camp all right. Shorty took Pebbles and staked Lock to the pony he was riding, a gentle pony; and it so happened I met them that morning when I was hunting a lost saddle horse.

Lock's face looked like a piece of raw beef; both eyes were completely closed when we got into camp. You can't just go to the phone and call a doctor in cow camp, either, for we were better than fifty miles from town. Lock couldn't use either his wrists or hands. But Joe Stewart, the cook,take the ponies several miles from camp and water them in bunches. One of those little bench-legged fellers, a bucking horse was meat and drink to Pecos, and he was rough with them too. While he was an ideal hand at working with some of the ol' outlaws in his string, everyone figgered he was too rough on the broncs he was breaking. I often watched him stand on the ground, macarty in hand, look a bronc in the eye and cuss him out as if the bronc were a man. Pecos would tell a bronc what he intended to do to him when he stepped across, nor was he ever one to go back on his word with a horse. Pecos fought his broncs so much that every pony in his string, when tied just out of camp, would set back and fight the rope if Pecos moved, even if the gesture was no more than to refill his coffee cup.

At the lower ranch that summer when he and Lock were snapping out the broncs Bill Young usually rode the fence, not for the show involved either but to see how each bronc was handled. The first half-dozen saddles can be mighty important to a pony, for the bronc may go one way or another-either good or bad. A bronc rider's job is to give the bronc his start as a cow horse, teach him the first principles. It's up to the cowboy who gets the horse to carry on from there.

While it is necessary to be firm at all times with a bronc, one doesn't always have to be rough. Some broncs quit pitching when they were whipped, with others the quirt only made them worse. While Pecos's style was cramped somewhat that summer, with Bill Young on the fence, Pecos made up for time lost when we got out on the range-with Bill back at the ranch. There was one thing Bill Young would not abide, and every rider knew Bill's pills; any cowboy who hit a horse over the head or spurred one in the shoulders was asking for his time.

One morning when Pecos and I were watering a bunch of ponies out Pecos rode a big bronc called Rough Lock. Pecos had been fighting the horse and Rough Lock, having more than enough, stampeded with the Kid. Pecos spurred the big horse in the shoulders, tried to get him to pitch and get him out of his run. But Rough Lock only increased his speed. Then Pecos reversed his loaded quirt and let the big horse have it right between the ears. When the big horse went down he turned a complete somersault and Pecos, quick as a cat, landed running on his feet. The big horse, still stunned, had trouble getting up.

It was when Pecos began to beat him over the head with the loaded quirt that I put in my two-bits' worth. Now any cowboy who interferes with another man and his horse knows he is asking for trouble, and Pecos was white in his rage. "That's enough," I said. Pecos didn't hear me so I said it a second time, and when Pecos finally looked at me it was as if he were coming out of a trance, and the Kid was shaking all over.

It was some time before he spoke. "Reckon yo're right," he said; "if it wasn't fer you I'd a-killed the big sonofabitch."

Of course, I said nothing about the affair. It was only a week or so later I was watering a bunch of ponies again when I noted Bill Young and Foreman Hanna, a friend, riding to our camp. Pecos had already preceded me with his bunch. When I got into camp he was drinking coffee at the cook's fire. Andy, the big bronc he rode, was tied just out of camp. I had not seen Pecos fight him, but Andy's shoulders were swollen where he had been cut with the spurs. "Better get that pony out of here," I said; "I saw Bill back there on the trail a piece and he'll be here in five minutes."

Pecos laughed, "I'm much obliged, but I was ready to sell out anyway. I got a bellyful."

Bill never shot any pills except through Shorty, his foreman. All of Bill's horses were gentle, none were ever roped. And when Bill walked to bridle a pony in the corral there was nothing he overlooked. To Shorty he'd say, "Have so-an'-so wrap that cinch ring or all the ponies in his string will have cinch sores if he don't." Or, "Tell so-an'so to reshoe that pony in front, the shoes are too long; ifthat pony happens to step on 'em with his hind feet he'll break his rider's neck.

When Bill rode in that day, as usual he never appeared to be looking at anything in particular, but the first thing he had noted was Andy's swollen shoulders. That night when Shorty called Pecos aside to give him his check I couldn't help but overhear what was said. "I'm sorry to do this," said Shorty."

"No hard feelin's," said Pecos. "Reckon I had it comin'; ya know, after ya fight broncs jes' so long they finally get in yer hair."

Several years later I saw Pecos at the rodeo in Chicago. Pecos had broken an arm on his first trip out of the chute. We shook hands. "I got a couple twin girls, Slim; wish ya could see the twins, I dress 'em jes' as purty." He asked of Bill and Shorty, all of the boys. "Did ya ever see a rougher range 'n that Cross S? Dogged, if I ever did. An' some of them ol' outlaws in that rough string-wasn't they somethin', now; they should be in a rodeo!"

And it was years later that I saw Lock. It was only when he laughed that the scars were obvious on his face. "That damn iodine you put on my face hurt worse than the fall I got that day when Pebbles spilled the pack."

The summer Lock and Pecos broke horses for the outfit there was a black bronc in the bunch, the pony was called Shimmy. The little black would stand and shake all over when a rider approached his head, then Shimmy would strike with both forefeet. He wasn't too hard to ride, but the more the pony was handled the more he fought a man on the ground. When they tried to whip it out of him Shimmy gave it back in kind. If ever a pony was slated for the rough string it was the little black horse.

When Carl Larsen asked for him it was considered quite a joke-as choreman at the ranch, Carl was not a cowboy. An ex-sailor, after several years at sea, Carl still wore a sailor shirt and he was seldom without a long sheath knife he wore on a loop at his belt. And while it is quite a step from the sea to a cow outfit in Arizona, Carl caught on fast.

The fall work at the Cross S started in mid-August on the mountain. A month later when one of the boys came back from an errand at the lower ranch he said the "Swede" was riding fence on Shimmy, but no one would believe him. It was October when we got down to the lower ranch. We were sitting around the fire that night when Shorty suggested to Carl that since the outfit was short-handed he ride with us next day. Carl stated simply that he would be glad to go along.

We were all curious about the little black horse. I was on wrangle next morning. When we got the ponies penned Carl walked to the little black horse, slipped the bridle on and led him to his rig. With the other wrangler I waited to see the fun. But there was no show that morning. Later, Bill gave us both the laugh. Carl didn't even untrack the horse after saddling him, simply stepped across. Shimmy did make one jump as Carl swung up, at which Carl stepped down and spoke to the horse. "Stand still," he said, "don't act a fool like that." When Carl mounted the second time Shimmy stood quietly and moved off like an ol' cow horse.

Bill Young said when he gave Carl the pony he had no idea how it might work out. But the first thing Carl did was to take the pony off alone and give him a feed of grain. A few days later Bill happened to look out the window and Carl was riding Shimmy. There was evidently an understanding between the man and the horse, even on the ground the pony would follow him like a dog. Yet Shimmy always struck with both forefeet when anyone else approached his head.

Newt Robinson and two of the boys had been to town; they wanted horses to go on to camp at Seven Mile. Carl was no place about but Shimmy was standing in the corral, so they decided to wrangle on him. Shimmy, as