In the spring of 1906 I landed in the town of Medicine Hat, Alberta, a green kid of some sixteen Quebec winters, with about at many pennies in my pocket. It was here that I met Curly Hunter and Jim Finch. Curly was a lanky Canadian rider and Jim was an old, tough cowman who had trailed into the Canadian West with the Turkey Track herds.
The livery barn seemed to be the busiest and best place to look for a ranch job, so there I was perched on the corral rail--derby hat and all--taking in my first sight of western men and horses in action. Jim had brought in a bunch of horses and was selling them off to homesteaders and ranchers. He would lead in a scary-eyed bronc, then the auctioneer would go to work extolling the bronc's good points, always stressing the fact that here was a plumb gentle hoss, saddle and harness broke. I was doubtful just what he termed plumb gentle as I witnessed some of the new owners trying to saddle or harness their purchases. Some of these same horses simply disappeared out of town in a cloud of dust, not even stopping to pick up the coats or the miscellaneous groceries and gear that had bounced out of the wagonbox!
Saddling and riding a newly-acquired pony was exciting, especially if the purchaser happened to be a new settler heading for the homestead. Advice and cheers from the spectators were loud and clear. Many were the helping hands ready to assist the new owner saddle the bronc, but once the new owner was in the saddle they'd turn that plumb gentle horse loose and watch him rattle the bones of his new master. Some rode to a finish amid cheers, but more often than not, the bronc won out and the dusty owner, after picking himself up, looked in anger for the guy who had sold him the horse. . . |
