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Last Updated: 16 March 2004

German-Russian Stories Continued

December 20, 1994

By Marv Hoffer

Lewistown, Mont.

PRAIRIE BRONC RIDERS

Marv Hoffer

One requisite of being born on the Dakota Plains is that you must be able to concoct your own entertainment most of your life. When I was a citizen of that world, from 1936-54, I found that idleness was more than the devil's workshop. It slowly would shoulder you into the domain of non-functionals, willing to become a hermit, dull-witted, dissolve into oblivion. So, the instinctive, the human, reaction was to discover, provoke, borrow, solicit (almost has a tone of immorality about it), or pilfer Entertainment. One kind or another. It proved to be the elixir of Dakota Life, an indispensable ingredient. Entertainment and hard work.

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The territorial farming community required the exchange, purchase, and sale of livestock, including

Marv Hoffer wrote: "....bought a few sassy Indian ponies about every other year."

horses of every type. It was common to "go to the auction yards, the sales barn", livestock auctions that is, to check out the sundry horses bought and sold. West River, beyond the Missouri, was a favored area to buy Indian ponies as diverse as lutefisk lovers. East River (east of the Missouri) farmers were intrigued (that's a $5.00 word for curious) by these pintos, bays, etc. and their avowed heritage. Apparently the Indian (Lakota, Cheyenne) ownership instilled some mystic values: ability to run as swift as the wind; walk without making sound; live off winter pasture and wax fat; shoulder a heavy saddle and a bigger man; and never grow old.

The father of a farm friend, as compared to a town friend, bought a few sassy Indian ponies about every other year. They were generally rangy, a polite term for skinny, spooky, and wild. The latter trait Wild was what interested us. Here we found Entertainment, that critical Dakota Prairie survival ingredient.

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As Olde Man Winter clutched the land in his bitter grip, immense drifts of hard, wind- driven snow piled up in the valleys and draws. These drifts blanketed most of the glacial boulders and rocks so prolifically strewn about the land. It was into this environment that we led Indian ponies fresh from West River. We were a ragged gaggle of would-be Casey Tibbs, bent on riding these ponies into submission, and ultimately to become a famous riding horse. We were outfitted in 5-buckle overshoes (you couldn't wear anything less), bib overalls covering two pair longjohns, sheepskin great coat, wool cap, and horsehide-wool mittens. Everyone ambled alike. Stiff, articulated motion, similar to a robot. Grace was not part of the vocabulary. Keeping warm was.

After great commotion, we generally got a saddle on a pony, and someone with plenty of guts (fortitude for the delicate) or short on brains (lacking in caution for the genteel) tried to leap aboard. The pony no doubt had survived to date without being ridden, hence his trip to the sales barn. It wanted no part of the saddle blanket, cinch, saddle, bridle, or this dude trying to mount. All hell broke loose, as expected. One foot in the left stirrup, right stirrup if you were a dude from the city, and a lock on the saddle horn kicked the Indian bronc into gear.

A bronc would leap sideways, trying to bit your leg as he flew four feet off frozen ground, then turned 180 degrees in 3/8th second. You lost your feeble grip on the saddle horn, and if the Lord was keeping a hawk eyeball on your skinny butt, you lost your overshoe and leather shoe in the stirrup as the bronc raced for the moon, crow-hopping with huge clods of snow and ice flying about. If by chance you were not lucky to loose your footgear and your foot stayed in the stirrup, well..... get out of the way Gerty. The bronc would drag your obnoxious butt protected by two pair wool longjohns across the frozen tundra till the cinch broke, the bronc floundered in the snow banks, or someone caught him. By then your eyeballs were spinning in opposite directions, your nostrils were snow-stuffed, your cloths were torn off down to your last pair of woollies, and couldn't remember your mother's name. Not dead, but damned near to it.

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On those rare occasions when a saddle was finally draped on a bronc, and the dazed and feeble rider got on board after eleven tries, then....we had a rodeo! "Ya gotta enunciate that like they do down in Mexeho.... roe day o. There, ya got it right. Sort of like saying San Hoes- say." The spooked bronc roared, vented and flared gas from both ends, and blasted from horizon to horizon. One, two, sometimes three or four, leaps and couple of crow-hops, and the rider dismounted. "How's that for a dignified term. Hell, he flew straight up eight feet, then crashed into the unyielding snow bank with a grunt that knocked all wind out of his sails, every time". All those itty-bitty crystals of water, snow to you, saved our bacon from grave harm. Generally the bronc was sashshaying and venting around the prairie until he shed all the tackle he so hated and feared.

We cheered on the would-be bronc rider with profuse encouragement, but he had enough. His ride lasted bout 4 seconds, he left a fine impression in the compacted snow, didn't break any bones, didn't get stepped on or kicked by that Indian pony, and had but three hitches in his come-a-long. Not bad, not bad at all, for a greenhorn, I'd say.

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Well, eventually everyone was harassed, egged-on, or threatened into riding at least once. All except the smallest in our raggedy group. My youngest brother Carly, bout 8 years then, was chosen to ride a little paint, looked more like a colt than a horse. We saddled it up, and it stood there looking back with both eyes. "Hmmmm, this must be a broke horse, broke to ride gently that is". Carly got on, all bundled in his heavy winter gear, we stepped back a scosh to give it space, kicking room. The paint reared up and over backward in one second flat, no snort, no biting, no kicking. Simply over on its back! Completely, like a trampoline artist does a back flip. Carly by accident, I recollect, rolled off the left side as the horse slammed it weight down on that piddling little saddle. Deep snow, and the fact Carly was partially out of the saddle, saved Carly's little carcass from getting mashed. The pony rolled away from Carly, another quality stroke, and leaped to his feet, looked back at Carly on the ground as though asking: "What happened to you dude?"

Big-eyed Carly got to his feet as the rest of us rolled our tongues back into our heads. Not busted up a bit. Shook up, yep, scared into piddling into his longjohns, and ready to head for the barn.

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We gathered the mixed bag of Indian ponies, loose riding gear, and most of our wits, then headed for the farm bout 3/4 mile distant. Afternoon sun was getting low and temperatures were going lower. Had been a pretty good afternoon of bronc riding. All tallied up, only two of the would-be riders got on, the rest of us were either drug around the pasture, or never got into the saddle. To hear us tell our folks that evening, we all rode each Indian pony into the snow banks to a complete standstill. Entertainment we had, a profusion of short and tall tales to tell, and thinking about the next time we ride West River Indian broncs.

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