With the stock on the ranch we had acquired about four hundred horses, most of which had never been handled and were running loose on the range. Before they were of any use or value they had to be broken and Owen felt that it was one of the most important things to be done. Consequently, many of the horses were broken to drive in the hay field, the broncho hitched up with a gentle horse, and put onto the rake or mowing machine—many were the runaways.
Charley was leisurely by nature. He never hurried either in speech or movement. Owen and I were in the office one morning when he strolled around the house and up to the door.
“Mis-ter Brook,” he drawled, “Ja-ne and Maud are running away with the mow-ing machine down in the timber—they throw-ed Windy off the seat,” but before he got the last word out, his listener was down the steps, over the fence and on his way toward the creek where Maud and Jane were tearing through the timber leaving parts of the mowing machine on stumps and fallen logs, while Charley looked after him in mild surprise. The horses were brought to an abrupt stop when one tried to go on one side of a tree and the other on the opposite side.
There was a beautiful black horse, “Toledo”, that refused to allow anyone to come near him but Owen or Bill, and there was also a new man on the ranch who so constantly boasted of his ability to handle bronchos the boys had dubbed him “Windy”.
Windy concluded one day that he would harness Toledo alone. There were violent sounds in the stable, snorts, shouts, thumps, and Windy sailed through the open door and landed on a conveniently placed pile of manure, frightened to death but unhurt.
Bill was furious.
“What’d you do to him, anyhow?” he stormed after roping Toledo who had broken his halter and was running loose in the corral.
“I didn’t do nothin’ to him,” protested Windy. “I just crope up and retched over and tetched him and he begun to snort and cave ’round.”
“Course you didn’t do nothin’, you couldn’t do nothin’ if you tried. You’d better go back to town where you belong, ’stead a stayin’ out here spoilin’ good horses.” Bill’s choler was rising. “You don’t know nothin’ neither, you’re jest a bone head, your spine’s jest growed up and haired over.” And, leading the subdued Toledo, Bill disappeared into the stable.
When the team that Owen reserved for his own use had passed the kicking and lunging stage and I had become sufficiently confident to look at the landscape instead of watching their ears, he usually concluded they were “pretty well broken” and that he must try out a new one. This trying out process went on indefinitely, for Owen’s New England conscience gave him no peace apparently while an unbroken horse remained in his possession. It was a form of duty.