# Patches (Hawkes)/Chapter 4

"WELL, Larry," said his Uncle Henry, the morning after the completion of the spring round-up, "I guess you and I had better get busy and break your colt. I think it is going to be a lively proposition and the sooner we get after him, the better."
"Break my colt!" repeated Larry in surprise. "Why, I haven't any colt. I don't own anything but the clothes I have on and a few in my old trunk."
"That is where you have another guess coming," returned his uncle, patting him affectionately on the arm. "You see I interviewed Mr. Morgan a week or so ago and bought the bay colt, the one you admired so much, from him and I am going to make you a present of him. He ought to make a fine saddle horse and a good cow-pony as well, and possibly a great running horse for he has the blood of some of the best Kentucky stock in his veins."
Larry was so overcome by this news that for several seconds he could not speak. A great lump filled his ​throat and his eyes were full of tears. It was so unexpected and he had so admired the bay colt.
"How can I ever thank you, Uncle Henry?" he tinally stammered. "You are so good to me."
"Tut, tut, boy," returned his uncle, "what is the use of having an old uncle if he cannot do you a good turn now and then?"
So, a few minutes later, armed with a hackamore, a fifty foot rope, and a lariat, Hank Brodie and his nephew made their way to the corral.
"You climb up on top of the corral fence," said Uncle Henry as he opened the gate cautiously. "It isn't any place for you inside. That colt has never had a rope touch him since he was two months old and I guess there will be fireworks."
So Larry climbed to the top of the corral fence and from that vantage point beheld the first lesson in breaking a wild colt.
The bay gelding although he was half mustang did not show this fact. The wild horses are usually ewenecked and have light manes and tails, but this wild horse had a beautiful crest, and a heavy mane and tail. He was a bright bay with black points and black mane and tail and his weight was just a little under eleven hundred pounds. He had retained more of the characteristics of the Kentucky thoroughbred than of the wild horse. As he pranced about the corral, alert and snort​ing, Larry thought he was the most beautiful piece of horse flesh he had ever seen.
The bay colt had seen the men enter the corral and lasso other horses many times before, but hitherto they had never thrown a lasso at him, and somehow he had the notion he was immune. Hank Brodie waited until he was wedged against the fence between two other horses, then with a quick motion threw the lasso and the rope sailed gracefully through the air and caught the bay colt by both front legs. He gave two frenzied jumps and then threw himself heavily upon his right side. There he lay, struggling, kicking and squealing. Finally when he had quieted down a bit Hank approached him slowly, talking to him all the time. "Whoa, whoa, old boy, lie still. I won't hurt you," he said. Then he came close and put his hand, first on the horse's shoulder, then on his neck, and finally on his head, talking to him all the time. Then he put a hackamore upon the prostrate horse and took off the lariat.
The hackamore is a very strong halter usually made of horse hair. Sometimes a bit is worked into it and it also sometimes has a slip noose, then it is called a warbridle. But this hackamore was just a plain halter. Then the broncho buster fastened the other end of the fifty foot rope to the snubbing post and let the colt pull until he had pulled himself to a standstill.
​When the last vestige of pulling spirit seemed gone out of him for that day, the cow-puncher approached him with a saddle, but as this foreign object touched his back the bay colt snorted, reared and plunged. It was fifteen minutes before Uncle Henry could tighten even one cinch but patience will have its own reward and patience the horse-trainer must have. So in another fifteen minutes he had tightened the second cinch and replaced the hackamore with a bridle.
"He is going great, Larry," said his uncle, "I never had one behave as well before but I am sure there will be fireworks when I try to mount him."
When the cow-puncher tried to put his foot in the stirrup, the gelding kept pulling way from him but he finally got the horse up against the fence and managed to mount. As the man's weight settled in the saddle upon his back the bay colt bucked straight into the air at least a yard and then came down with his legs as stiff as fence posts. Larry was surprised at this behavior of the colt but he need not have been. For untold ages wild horses have bucked like this to dislodge mountain lions and other enemies which sought to pull them down. There was something in the consciousness of this wild horse that made him buck as his ancestors had always done. The next time he bucked he threw all four feet to the right while still in mid-air and it seemed to Larry that his uncle must be pitched from the sad​dle, but he kept his seat. Again the frantic colt tried the same maneuver but this time he threw his legs to the left. This strategy is called sunfishing, but the cow-puncher kept his seat and grinned pleasantly up at his nephew. Then he bucked and turned half way around as he came down so that when he struck his head was pointing where his tail had been. This was called swapping ends. But even this maneuver did not disturb the skillful broncho buster, but the colt's next move was more serious, for without any warning he reared straight in the air standing upon his hind legs. Even this maneuver had not been unexpected by the cow-puncher and as the frantic horse paused for a moment upon his hind legs the man slipped his left leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, and not an instant too soon for almost at the same moment the horse toppled backwards and fell upon the ground, smashing the saddle tree as he fell. It was a close call and the cow-puncher had been lucky not to get a broken back or at least a broken leg, but he didn't seem to be disturbed by this catastrophe for he immediately sprang on the prostrate horse's head. The gelding squealed and kicked but all to no purpose, So he lay still.
"Now, Larry," said his uncle, "you go into the ranch house and get that cow-puncher book on the table. ​There's a chapter in it I have been trying to get a chance to read and this is a good time."
A few minutes later when Larry returned with the book he found his uncle seated comfortably upon the horse's shoulder.
"You see," explained the cow-puncher as he lit a cigarette and prepared to read, "a horse cannot rise as long as you keep his head down and I am going to let him lie a spell and think it over."
So Larry climbed back to his perch on the corral fence while Hank Brodie smoked his cigarette and read his chapter in the book. At the end of half an hour he rose from his seat on the horse's shoulder and allowed him to get to his feet. The horse was trembling in every limb and was so cramped from lying on the ground that he could scarcely stand. The fight seemed all gone out of him for that day. He made no objection when the cow-puncher mounted him and jogged leisurely around the corral for fifteen minutes. Then Hank removed the saddle and bridle and set him free.
"Is he broken?" asked Larry, climbing down from his perch on the corral fence.
"Hardly," returned his uncle, "but this is the first lesson and I guess it was a good one. I don't think he will back-heave again. That is what we call that maneuver when he went over backwards. He had a ​good chance to think it over and I guess he has discovered it doesn't pay."
"How strange those four cream colored patches on either side of him make him look," said Larry. "It looks almost as though they had been put on with a paint brush."
"I guess his mother thought she would mark him after a paint at first and then changed her mind."
"What is a paint?" inquired Larry.
"A paint is cowboy slang for pinto and pinto is the Mexican name for painted, so there you have it."
"Those patches on his side have suggested just the name for him," cried Larry, excitedly. "I am going to call him Patches."
"It is a good name," returned his uncle, "it describes him to a T. It is always well to have the name for a horse mean something."
So from that very day the bay gelding became Patches and it was a name which afterwards won for his owner many distinctions.
"Not just yet, son," replied his uncle. "It is all right for me to mount him but if you so much as tried to put your foot in the stirrup he would immediately buck you into kingdom come if he could.
"It is a very strange thing, but these wild horses can spot a tenderfoot and they are always waiting to give him a spill. But after a couple of weeks you can take a turn at him, even then it will be all you can do to keep from getting spilled."
​About two weeks later, one evening, word was passed around among the cowboys that the kid was going to tide Patches to a finish. He was going to set him out. So most of the cowboys gathered around the corral to see the fun. They were seated upon nail kegs and boxes, cracking jokes at Larry's expense.
When Patches was at last brought out all bridled and saddled he looked docile enough and Larry did not think he would give him any trouble, but as soon as he was well in the saddle Patches bucked even more violently than he had with his uncle the first day. Straight into the air he bucked at least three feet and when he came down stiff-legged Larry thought that every tooth in his head hit against its fellow and every vertebra in his backbone received a terrible bang. Then without waiting to say as much as by your leave he sprang into the air sunfishing and his feet were thrown so violently to the right that Larry had to clutch the saddle horn to keep his seat.
"Pulling the lever," cried one of the cowboys. "Choking the horn!" exclaimed another. "Chopping biscuit," cried a third.
"Aw, let the kid alone," growled Big Bill, "you don't want to see him killed, do you? He is doing all right."
Patches' next maneuver was to crowhop, after which he pulled off three or more running bucks. And each time his feet struck the ground it seemed to Larry that ​the breath of life would be jarred out of him but still he clung to the saddle. Then to the surprise of all the cow-punchers, Patches bolted. Straight through the ranch house yard he went and with a great leap cleared a high fence next to the wagon trail and disappeared down the road at a pounding gallop.
"Good Heavens," cried Pony running for the corral, "he'll kill the kid. I am going after him."
"I guess he will be all right," said Hank Brodie. "That boy is a pretty good horseman for his years and he will pull him down after a mile or two and he will come back looking like a different horse."
But Pony's fears could not be allayed and a moment later he galloped out of the yard on the Jack Rabbit and disappeared down the road.
Five minutes later the cow-punchers heard the sounds of returning hoofs. Larry and Patches were the first to come in sight and Pony and the Jack Rabbit were trailing a hundred feet behind.
Patches was still going at a good swinging gallop but not so fast as he had when he disappeared.
Larry guided him skillfully through the gate and by the ranch house.
"Head him into the corral fence," shouted his uncle as he passed. Larry did as he was commanded, and seeing his way blocked, Patches slowed down at the fence. Then Larry turned him about and rode him ​back to the ranch house. He was still snorting, prancing, and pulling on the bit, but well in hand.
"You done well, kid," cried Long Tom.
"You set him out," called Big Bill.
"We all knowed you could do it," cried Texas Joe, "he's your'n from now on."
This prophecy proved true, for although they had some lively tussles, Larry was always master after that.
"Uncle Henry," said the boy, the morning following his tussle with Patches, "I am going to train Patches in a different way from that you cowboys use. Now I have got the upper hand of him I am going to make him love me and make him do things for me because he wants to."
"That will be all right for you," returned Uncle Henry, "but it will take time. We cow-punchers cannot spend the time to fuss with them in that way."
Just about this time the cow-punchers turned their attention to the home ranch and Larry was given some of the range riding to do. At first he did this on Old Dobbin but after a week or two his uncle said he could take Patches and the boy's cup of joy was full.
It was irksome work for the cow-punchers riding on wheel harrows and sulky plows up and down the endless acres on the home ranch, but it was work that had to be done. They sweated and cussed but still they ​kept right at work and by the first of May, one hundred acres had been plowed and seeded.
In the meanwhile Larry had been busy training Patches and as he had promised his uncle he had moulded him through love and good-will.
After teaching him to turn to the right and the left in answer to the pressure of his knees on the sides, he taught him to stand when the lines were thrown over his head and left dangling on the ground. He also taught him the five paces of a saddle horse: the walk; the running trot which comes so natural to a mustang and is so easy on both horse and rider; then he developed the canter; and after that the gallop; and finally he taught him the Spanish walk.
The cow-punchers made many jokes at his expense. Big Bill said that he would have the horse's legs so tangled up that he wouldn't know whether he was coming or going. But Larry took their jokes good-naturedly and kept right on with his work.
Then he practised mounting while the horse was in motion, first at a walk, then a trot, and finally at a slow gallop. It took him nearly a week to master the gallop, but at last he got so he could mount when Patches galloped slowly by.
"What is all this here hoss play leading to anyhow?" inquired Big Bill one night. "Jest an ordinary hoss is good enough for me."
​"Oh, I don't know," replied Larry, "you never can tell when some of these accomplishments will come in handy. I want Patches to be the best all-round saddle horse in these parts and a good cow pony as well."
"That is another story," said Hank Brodie, "it takes time to make a cow horse. A cow horse has got to know a lot, he has got to have horse sense. He has got to know a lot besides the cattle game; he must be able to ford rivers and keep out of quicksand, and if need be, to swim; he must keep his feet out of gopher and badger holes; he must know how to cut out cattle and how to head them back when he has got them out. He must be able to stand the strain of a lariat on a thousand pound steer when the steer is running at a gallop and he must also have sense enough to hold a lariat taut when a steer is thrown while the cow-puncher hog-ties him."
"Is there anything more?" inquired Larry in surprise. "That sounds like a liberal education."
"Oh, yes," returned his uncle, "there's all sorts of things and all sorts of difficulties coming up every day and your cow-pony must meet them with horse sense, some of it comes to him naturally but lots of it he has to learn."
After the hay on the home ranch had been cut and stacked there was a little lull in the ranch work and then it was that the cow-punchers, under the super​vision of Larry, marked out a polo ground in the meadows close to the ranch house. Here on warm summer evenings they played many an exciting polo game.
Larry soon discovered, as Long Tom had intimated, that Big Bill's middle name was polo. For, mounted upon his big mustang, Manito, he was indeed a tower of strength and a defense of position. Long Tom himself upon the Panther was also good secondary defense while Larry and Pony played the forward positions. Larry himself had played many important polo games in the East. It was his ability to play polo that had made him a favorite with his riding master. He had several times been referred to in a local newspaper as the boy wonder. So under his guidance the C. C. Polo Team soon had an enviable reputation in the vicinity, defeating several good teams from neighboring ranches.
At first Patches did not take to the game as Larry had hoped. While he would gallop hither and you at the touch of whip or spur, yet he did not seem to understand what it was all about. But one evening when he had been playing about two weeks it seemed to come to him in a flash. He got his eye on the ball and connected up with the idea that this was what they were after. From that time onward at the crack of the mallet he was after the ball like a cat after a mouse ​and he seemed to take as much interest in the game as any seasoned polo pony.
One evening when the cow-punchers had thought it too hot to play polo and the little company were lying on the grass by the ranch house, Hank Brodie made an observation that started a lively discussion.
"I have been thinking, boys," he said, "that Patches has got the makings of a great running horse and I wouldn't be at all surprised if he could trim the Jack Rabbit in a half mile dash any time." This statement from the head cow-puncher brought Pony to his feet with an excited explanation for if there was one thing in the world that he was proud of, it was the Jack Rabbit's ability to run in short races.
"He can't do it, Mr. Brodie," Pony cried excitedly, "there ain't a hoss in these here parts that can trim the Jack Rabbit in a half mile dash."
"Well," returned Mr. Brodie, "I don't see any way to settle it but to saddle them up."
This suggestion was as a match to gunpowder and Pony started for the corral on a run.
"Bill, you and Long Tom had better go along and make up a company. A race between two horses isn't very exciting."
So Larry and the other two cow-punchers went to the corral and five minutes later all returned, saddled and bridled.
​"You take them down the road half a mile, Bill," said Hank Brodie, "and start by that big boulder in the bend of the road. You can start them with your gun. Joe and I will stay here at the scratch and watch the finish. We will be the judges."
All the cow-punchers were lined up beside the wagon trail, eager to see the race for hitherto the Jack Rabbit had always been successful in short races.
Almost before they knew it the crack of Bill's .45 rang out on the evening air and the race was on.
"How did they start, Joe?" asked Mr. Brodie after about ten seconds. Joe was watching through the field glass.
"The Rabbit got off like a rocket and he is now leading by four lengths and the rest of them are strung out, Patches bringing up the rear."
Joe reported again at the quarter, "They are coming jest about the same, perhaps the others have pulled up a little on the Jack Rabbit, but Patches is still behind."
At three-eighths the relative positions of the horses had not changed but the Jack Rabbit was now leading by only two lengths.
When they were about a hundred yards away Hank Brodie made a funnel of his hands and shouted to Larry and his voice rang out like the crack of a rifle.
"Give him the quirt, boy, give him the quirt."
Larry let the quirt fall, once, twice, and Patches ​jumped forward in answer to this urge. At the same time there was born in his consciousness a new idea. It was not all his though, but was a part of his inheritance; an idea which came down through his blood from his Arabian ancestors, and from his great-grandfather who had broken the world's record at Churchill Downs. This was a race he was in; his master wanted him to beat the other horses; so immediately he lengthened his stride and quickened the beat of his hoofs.
In a hundred feet he had passed Bill, in a hundred feet more he had passed Long Tom and in the last hundred feet he shot past the Jack Rabbit like a whirlwind and finished a whole length ahead.
"Great jumping horn spoon!" cried Pony, pulling up fifty feet beyond the scratch. "That hoss didn't beat the Jack Rabbit, did he?"
"That's what he did," replied Hank Brodie. "Beat him by a length."
"There's some mistake about it," protested Pony. "Me and the Jack Rabbit didn't get a good start."
"Yes, you did," returned Hank. "We were watching you through the glass and you led by four lengths up to the quarter."
"Well, he couldn't do it again," said Pony. "Let's try again."
"No, I guess that is enough for to-night," returned Hank Brodie, "but if you tried it again and Larry gave ​him the quirt at the start, he would beat you by four lengths. Now I am going to make a prophecy about that horse. It is my opinion that before many years he will be one of the greatest running horses in Wyoming."
And the prophecy was a good one.