Warm-hearted, lovable L. Evan Tine is perhaps best known to the world at large as the first man to perform an Immelmann turn in the U.S. Air Force's charmingly science-fictional new "Flying Platform". He has endeared himself to his many friends in literary, advertising, television, radio and motion picture circles by his masterful preparation of Wor Shew Opp, using a genuine antique Gutenberg machine to press the duck. Under the pseudonym of Leak Orey, his fiction has appeared in virtually every weekly Wild West pulp you can name. To find the real L. Evan Tine, however, you must visit the stables at Red Sands around cleaning time, for it is then that he really comes into his own, doing the research that enables him to prove his modest claim of knowing as much about horses (from one end to the other) as any man alive. In the present article, he offers a few entertaining footnotes (or, as he with his ready wit, might put it, hoofnotes) on horses which may shatter an illusion or two.
Pick up a story dealing with horses, or horse-drawn vehicles, and you will undoubtedly find a sequence which reads something like this:
Captain Smurch settled into the driver's seat of the buggy and picked up the reins. The red and green buckboard class wagon hitched to Dobbin was ready to go.
"All stablehands report!" he rasped.
"Ready!" went up the unanimous cry.
"Green light from traffic control, sir!" snapped the head groom.
"Very well, all four hooves at a gallop! Giddap!" the order came from Smurch as he cracked his whip.
Now, undoubtedly this is taking place in the far, FAR, FAR future when horses have become as reliable and commonplace as a bottle of likker. But it isn't going to be that easy for a long, LONG, LONG time to come.
Nor is our gallant Captain Smurch going to be totally nonchalant about the whole thing, sitting there quietly picking up the reins while a giddap and crack of the whip start the horse.
Why? Because horses have a certain amount of innate cussedness to them -- they all seem to have cunning little minds of their own. Horses are pretty stupid at this point in their development.
And human beings, still the smartest things around, will continue to goof. Let us talk about the riders, since we got off on the human tangent to start with. A rider or driver in a story is usually flawless and imperturbable, physically fit to the nth degree. But it ain't likely in real life.
Consider some of the oft-told tales around Red Sands Horse Corral -- which is where I happen to work and therefore the place about which I can talk most intelligently.
When it comes to riding a horse, there are a million little things to check before mounting, all of which must be done properly. The saddle must be in place on the horse's back, and the girth must be fastened or it will come off. The bridle must be placed on the horse's head and its buckles fastened. The curb chain must be put in place, and the reins must be attached to the bit before it is safe for the rider to mount. On top of all this -- and more -- there is the horse itself. A horse in the wild stage still has bugs on it, which is why it is still being disinfected. But even the old mustangs had their share of troubles.
The last of the mustangs was scheduled to be ridden in late September several years ago. Two other writers and I drove out to Red Sands on the morning when it was to take place. On the dark, cold desert, we found a place to watch from, and settled down. Everything seemed to be going on schedule until time for the ride to take place. Later we learned the following dialog had taken place at the corral:
"Okay, the saddle and bridle are ready. Bring in the horse."
"Funny, but it should be here. I don't see it anywhere."
"Call the ramrod and find out where it is."
The groom did so, and got the answer, "What horse?"
In the rush and tension of getting ready for that ride, nobody had thought to order the horse.
Stories of the mustangs are rampant at Red Sands. By far the best is told about "Pappy" Cosie, a field man. He was one of those wonderful personalities who helped give Red Sands its fine reputation as riding corral capital of the world. He knew horses and had a reputation as riding more horses than any man in this country. But the mustang called "Old Paint" was almost his undoing.
Pappy used to stand between the corral and the bunkhouse calling instructions during the saddling and bridling of a horse, and he was in that position when they tacked up Old Paint.
The bridle was in place, and the cinch tightened, but Old Paint didn't just stand there. He built up energy slowly, and jittered or waltzed around in the corral, breaking into a series of bucks and kicks, and he charged for the corral fence head-on.
Pappy was the only man in the yard who could see what was happening. He ran for the bunkhouse, slammed the door behind him, and crawled quickly under his bed. There were about two dozen people in there and when they saw Pappy hit the floor, they decided as one that under the bed was the best place to be.
Then Pappy got up and took a cautious peek out the window. All two dozen others crawled out from under the beds and looked over his shoulders. At that instant the horse gave out a snort, and Pappy went down again, followed by everyone else in the room. This jack-in-the-box routine involving more than a score of men happened four times in all, while the horse kicked and snorted.
After Old Paint quieted down, a lot of people felt downright silly. That corral fence was built to withstand the force of a horse far more powerful than Old Paint. But Pappy was an old timer; and when he ducked, everybody else thought it was high time they ducked too.
There are other stories about Pappy, too, most of them too obscene to mention here.
By far the most classic goof in riding a horse is one where a man who was responsible for tracking the horse and rider through a pair of field glasses, came down one day and asked what time the horse he was supposed to track was to be ridden. The horse and rider had left three hours before and were back already.
Running a close second was the occasion where a groom called for a reschedule of the ride that his horse was to be in that afternoon, only to be denied it by the range controller, because the horse was already mounted and on its way.
Any rider will contest there, maintaining some other goof to be classic. To hell with him.
All of which served to point out that the truth of the whole matter is something entirely different from the fictional representation. Not knowing much more about travel in horse-drawn vehicles than the next man at this time, I'd still venture a read prediction that troubles will be manifest and grow into the same sort of legendary yarns as those of riding.
And probably the cry of "Hold your horses!" will be more common than, "Giddap!"
--- L. Evan Tine
Data entry by Judy Bemis
Hard copy provided by Geri Sullivan
Data entry by Judy Bemis
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