Many Thanks, and a tribute

I want to express my sincere appreciation for your thoughts and prayers last week. It really made a difference.


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It was the late 1920’s and he was a young man, still a teenager. Yet he had seen quite a bit and been around a little. Missouri had gotten too hot for him as a result of too much moonshine and a few too many fights in the wrong places with the wrong people. He still wasn’t considered a criminal -- unless one counted his personal crusade against Prohibition – but it seemed best for him to get away for awhile until things cooled. The train had carried him west to Wyoming. His older sister and her husband worked on a vast sheep ranch. He would have an opportunity to spend some time alone up in the high country with sheep, a couple of dogs and some rattlesnakes.

Somewhere along the way, his brother-in-law, Fred, had acquired a fine little mare they called Peggy. She was a good working horse, quick, sure-footed, tough, and more than a little fiery. In fact, a rider did not need spurs. More than that, Peggy would not tolerate a rider with spurs.

Fred, Martha, and the rest of the bunch headed for town, leaving the wiry teenager alone on the ranch. Fred suggested that his brother-in-law could ride Peggy if he needed to check on things. “Just remember to take off your spurs,” he said, “before you get on her.”

The young man took care of the chores and, as the day wore on, found himself in the barn looking at that mare. He went over and saddled her, then, very deliberately, he buckled on his spurs.

Now at this point, a question might occur to some people. I won’t say that it never occurred to me any of the dozen or so times I heard the man who put on those spurs tell the story. I will say that I never asked because I already knew the answer. I’m not sure I can put it into words any more than he could have if someone had asked him, “Why did you want to ride the horse with spurs when you didn’t need them?”

Probably he would not have actually answered. He would have begun to smirk, then to smile. He would have chuckled softly and, with eyes still full of mischievous laughter and a slight shake of his head, he would have continued the story.

He led the mare to the open barn door. The ground sloped away ahead of them, gently but down through scattered trees. He would have pulled the front brim of his hat down just a little tighter, put the toe of his left boot into the stirrup, then mounted with a swift, sure motion.

He gigged her.

The mare leaped.

Peggy knew how to buck. She did no fancy sunfishing. She didn’t need to. She landed hard on her front feet, head tucked, hind legs pointing very close to one o’clock. Her back hooves barely touched earth before she clawed up and forward to strike the ground again, kicking and twisting, trying to shake that man from her back.

Yet he still raked her with those spurs.

She headed back down, using the slope and all the forces of gravity to unseat her tormentor. His fedora lifted, despite the extra tug, and sailed away, but he remained. The mare fought on against the man with the spurs. They were through the trees and the ground became a little more level. Peggy was heaving, and she was beginning to lather. She paused, though still trembling, threatening to rocket again. She felt the jab of the rowel and took a couple of tentative steps.

Satisfied after a few minutes, the rider dismounted. He walked back up the slope, leading the now calm mare. He passed by the great furrows plowed in the sod by the horse’s hooves. Retrieving his hat, and having given Peggy a chance to recover, he swung again into the saddle. He felt her back kink a little when the spurs touched her, but she straightened out and went forward at her customary trot. The young man went on with the work of the day.

When Fred arrived he spoke with his brother-in-law about one thing and another. In the course of the conversation, the young man said, “Next time you ride Ol’ Peggy, you can leave your spurs on.”