Read Online The Pastures of Beyond by Dayton O. Hyde - Free Book Online
Authors: Dayton O. Hyde
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pockets full of rocks to keep from blowing away. Strangers would grin at me as I walked the streets of Klamath Falls and say, âHey, howâs the weather up there, Slim?â I longed to spit in their eyes and retort, âItâs raininâ up here. How is it down there?â
But I didnât, of course. I just slouched on my way, hoping to duck around the next corner and disappear. I even daydreamed of becoming invisible. But invisibility was a tough trick to pull off on Main Street. In those days, I couldnât walk a block on Main Street without passing several Indians off the reservation, people who needed me as much as I needed them. They were my solace, for I could stop and talk to them about horses and rodeo, and they treated me like a friend rather than a freak. By stopping in at Charley Readâs saddle shop, I could count on seeing some Indian friends like Buck Scott or Lee Hutchison, only a little older than I, who were already becoming pretty good saddle bronc riders.
Or I could go over to the Montgomery Ward saddle department, where Jerry Ambler, the reigning world champion saddle bronc rider, ran the department. Jerry was slender as a willow whip and rode by balance instead of brute strength. He sat the saddle on a space no bigger than a handkerchief, shoulders bowed, looking as though he were being towed along by his bucking rein. Of the balance riders I watched through the years, probably only the great South Dakotan Casey Tibbs, from Fort Pierre, was his equal. Maybe Jerry could sense my intense interest and knowledge of bucking horses, for he was always nice to me and would drive out of his way to pick me up at the ranch and take me to a rodeo.
In those days, before World War II, a great many rodeo contestants were ranch-raised kids who had grown up a-horseback and learned to ride bucking horses by breaking colts. Perhaps they rode the rough string and spoiled horses for a big outfit like the ZX over at Paisley. They might go to town for a Fourth of July rodeo and compete against other riders from other ranches, take home a little prize money, and go back to buckarooing on the ranches. If they were good enough, they made rodeos on weekends, paid their entrance fees, and hoped that the prize money they managed to win would exceed gas money, food, entrance fees, and doctor bills.
I read and reread the rodeo magazine Hoofs and Horns until the pages fell apart. My heroes were the bronc riders of the day â Bill McMackin, Doff Aber, Perry Ivory, Gene Rambo, to name a few. In my dreams I competed at Madison Square Garden, Pendleton, Calgary, and Salinas. I rode high, wide, and handsome until they opened the chute gate and my dream mount plunged bucking and kicking into the arena. There the dream always ended, for I could not fight reality and was suddenly snapped back to being a tall, gangly kid, a wannabe with no talent for riding the really tough horses.
My head was full of great bucking horses like Steamboat, Tipperary, Midnight, and Five Minutes Till Midnight, and the bunkhouse cowboys must have gotten sick of hearing about them.
Each of the cowboys at Yamsi had six horses on his string, one for each of the six working days. I was no exception and gloried in those that might buck a little. I had a big gray horse named Smoky that was cold-backed, meaning he would hump up and buck, in the morning when I got on. We were a pretty good team. Smoky liked to buck and I liked to ride. Without any encouragement on my part, Smoky would drop his head between his knees and buck in long, easy jumps. He leaped high, and made me feel more talented than I really was.
I wanted desperately to belong somewhere, to earn the respect of those I idolized, but I was still growing like a weed, and no matter how much I wanted to sign up as a contestant at each rodeo I went to, I ended up just hanging around the chutes, watching for any opportunity to help. There were lots of rodeos each summer, and I went
But I didnât, of course. I just slouched on my way, hoping to duck around the next corner and disappear. I even daydreamed of becoming invisible. But invisibility was a tough trick to pull off on Main Street. In those days, I couldnât walk a block on Main Street without passing several Indians off the reservation, people who needed me as much as I needed them. They were my solace, for I could stop and talk to them about horses and rodeo, and they treated me like a friend rather than a freak. By stopping in at Charley Readâs saddle shop, I could count on seeing some Indian friends like Buck Scott or Lee Hutchison, only a little older than I, who were already becoming pretty good saddle bronc riders.
Or I could go over to the Montgomery Ward saddle department, where Jerry Ambler, the reigning world champion saddle bronc rider, ran the department. Jerry was slender as a willow whip and rode by balance instead of brute strength. He sat the saddle on a space no bigger than a handkerchief, shoulders bowed, looking as though he were being towed along by his bucking rein. Of the balance riders I watched through the years, probably only the great South Dakotan Casey Tibbs, from Fort Pierre, was his equal. Maybe Jerry could sense my intense interest and knowledge of bucking horses, for he was always nice to me and would drive out of his way to pick me up at the ranch and take me to a rodeo.
In those days, before World War II, a great many rodeo contestants were ranch-raised kids who had grown up a-horseback and learned to ride bucking horses by breaking colts. Perhaps they rode the rough string and spoiled horses for a big outfit like the ZX over at Paisley. They might go to town for a Fourth of July rodeo and compete against other riders from other ranches, take home a little prize money, and go back to buckarooing on the ranches. If they were good enough, they made rodeos on weekends, paid their entrance fees, and hoped that the prize money they managed to win would exceed gas money, food, entrance fees, and doctor bills.
I read and reread the rodeo magazine Hoofs and Horns until the pages fell apart. My heroes were the bronc riders of the day â Bill McMackin, Doff Aber, Perry Ivory, Gene Rambo, to name a few. In my dreams I competed at Madison Square Garden, Pendleton, Calgary, and Salinas. I rode high, wide, and handsome until they opened the chute gate and my dream mount plunged bucking and kicking into the arena. There the dream always ended, for I could not fight reality and was suddenly snapped back to being a tall, gangly kid, a wannabe with no talent for riding the really tough horses.
My head was full of great bucking horses like Steamboat, Tipperary, Midnight, and Five Minutes Till Midnight, and the bunkhouse cowboys must have gotten sick of hearing about them.
Each of the cowboys at Yamsi had six horses on his string, one for each of the six working days. I was no exception and gloried in those that might buck a little. I had a big gray horse named Smoky that was cold-backed, meaning he would hump up and buck, in the morning when I got on. We were a pretty good team. Smoky liked to buck and I liked to ride. Without any encouragement on my part, Smoky would drop his head between his knees and buck in long, easy jumps. He leaped high, and made me feel more talented than I really was.
I wanted desperately to belong somewhere, to earn the respect of those I idolized, but I was still growing like a weed, and no matter how much I wanted to sign up as a contestant at each rodeo I went to, I ended up just hanging around the chutes, watching for any opportunity to help. There were lots of rodeos each summer, and I went
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