Bille in front, sisters Jamie (middle and Judy (back.)
Billie on a stick horse on W oulfter Ranch.
part of our lives.
I didn’t have to
wait long before that
horse of my own
appeared. My parents
brought him home
in the back seat of
the car: a tiny Indian
pony, dun, with a
dark stripe down his
spine. We named
him Chiefie, and he
became my best
friend and playmate.
We taught him to
lead and bow. He
didn’t mind the sad-
dle blanket or the
saddle, but when one
of us tried to ride, he
would bow first and
then lie down. Just
didn’t think people
should be on his
back.
Chiefie liked to
eat everything, and
we often tempted
him to follow us by
holding out a snack.
One day when
Mother and Daddy
were both away from home, Judy and I
decided it would be fun to bring Chiefie
into the house. We lured him with half
a chocolate bar—up the steps of the
front porch, through the front door, and
into the living room. Then Mother
unexpectedly came home. She was not
amused to find a horse in the house. She
grabbed her buggy whip and threatened
the three of us, so we ran through the
house for the back door, Chiefie skid-
ding on the linoleum floor. I held the
door open so Judy and Chiefie could
run through, and the three of us jumped
off the back porch about the same time,
Judy and I howling with laughter.
Jamie was not fond of Chiefie,
because once, in his enthusiasm to taste
the world, he chewed up one of her
taffeta slips that was hanging on the
clothesline.
As much fun as it was to play with
Chiefie, he was really too small to ride,
so we rode Dandy, a big dun quarter
horse. Judy and I rode frequently, some-
times alone, sometimes double, and we
had great fun playing cowboys. Our
imaginations were fired by the movies:
Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Audie
Murphy, Lash Larue, and Tom Mix
appeared regularly in the Saturday mati-
nees.
Cenizo
One afternoon, Judy decided that she
would try the flying getaway so popular
on film: as the chase began, the hero
would leap from a window or a balcony
on to his galloping steed and be off to
pursue the bad guys. Judy thought the
back porch would do for her point of
departure and that Dandy would serve
as her mount. She positioned herself on
the porch and directed me to lead
Dandy by the porch, getting him as
close to a gallop as possible. When she
yelled that she was ready, I ran as fast as
I could, Dandy in tow. Around the cor-
ner of the house, past the back porch,
and then a thud! Dandy and I stopped
abruptly and looked back to see Judy
lying spread-eagle in the back yard; she
had jumped clear over the horse.
Fortunately, nothing was damaged
except her dignity—but that was the last
of the trick riding for a while.
For serious riding, we had two beau-
tiful registered quarter horses, both out
of Topsy, our big bay mare. Sport was
the older of the two and Calamity Jane
the younger. I claimed Calamity and
loved to ride her, even though she’s the
only mount that ever threw me. I was
riding her in the pasture south of the
house when something spooked her and
she shied, bucking vigorously. I went fly-
ing and landed hard, but unhurt—and
wiser, knowing never to relax entirely
while astride a frisky filly.
High school days yielded more rid-
ing, on a variety of horses. One of my
best friends was Joy Weinacht, whose
family owned both a farm west of town
and a ranch south of Toyahvale. They
had horses at both places, and we rode
every chance we got. I’d spend weekends
with Joy, and we covered miles and miles
of their property on horseback.
One scorching summer day found us
hot and weary, miles from the house,
when we came to a natural watering
hole. Joy suggested that we ride the hors-
es right into the water. That sounded
like a fine plan, so in we went, right up
to the horses’ bellies. The water was so
inviting we decided to take a dip our-
selves—in our clothes. (We figured they
would dry as we rode home.) Off we
tumbled, and the water was refreshing—
but I hadn’t counted on how heavy my
Levis and denim shirt would be when
wet. I thought I might drown before I
dragged myself out.
continued on page 10
Fourth Quarter 2019
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