The Lark: Vol 3, Issue 9, September 2023

LITTLE JOE

by Karen Longtieg

Dad’s friend and neighbor, Hilliard Patton, was ‘horse proud’ -- he bought and sold beautiful quarter horses, horses with plenty of zip to them, and he kept his tack cleaned up and polished.  He dressed himself nicely too, in blue jeans and a Western shirt with pearl snaps, along with an expensive Stetson, whereas my dad usually wore oil-stained farmer’s coveralls and a battered felt hat.

Local Idaho rodeos and parades were always improved by Hilliard’s participation, as he and his mount of the month were always quite a turnout, a little silver here and a little fringe there, well worth taking a second look.  For that matter, Hilliard was worth a second look too, even at about 60, lean and tanned with twinkly eyes.  Even a 13-year-old like I was, took some note.

Hilliard rode a horse over to our place from his ranch one day, possibly on an errand although more likely to stand around in the machine yard, show off his new horse and chew the fat with dad. I quickly abandoned my appointed job on the end of a garden hoe when I spotted the beautiful strawberry roan with him and went over to inspect.

“This here’s Little Joe,” said Hilliard. I duly and sincerely admired the gelding, with some envy. My own saddle mare had a pretty sorrel hide but was getting on in years and wasn’t near the horse that Hilliard’s mount was.

“Would you like to take a turn around on Little Joe? I guess you know how to ride – I seen you around, riding with Marlene.” Marlene was my neighbor, and her dad kept some nice horses too. I quietly puffed up a little bit.

“Yeah, sure!” I replied confidently, so I introduced myself to the horse (pat pat pat, good boy, sweet talk) and mounted while Hilliard held Little Joe’s bridle.

The feel of the padded saddle was a novelty, and wonderful!  Like getting in a new Buick after a ’49 Ford. “Why doesn’t our saddle have padding,” I thought, because I knew it had been commissioned specially by my grandpa, from Ray Holes who was the best saddle maker in Grangeville, 30 miles to the east on the other side of the prairie. But, it was commissioned a long time ago.

“Well, have a nice ride,” Hilliard said, giving me the reins, and I pushed my heels gently into Little Joe’s sides.

That horse took off like an ICBM. I quickly found out that he had a hard mouth too, which meant my puny girly arms were not strong enough to make him mind.  East down the gravel road we shot, the fastest I had ever ridden a horse.

I tried to saw his head around to one side so he would have to look back at me and, not being able to see where he was going, would slow the heck down, but I may as well have been pulling on a gate post.

We darted down the road, clear past Marlene’s and into the draw, where I somehow – somehow, I don’t know to this day — got this rocket ship turned around and headed back. I had briefly thought if he continued straight east we might have ended up the 30 miles away in Grangeville. I could have window-shopped for a new saddle.

Back west up the hill he careened, until we got close to the hired man’s house, which was set a little downhill from the main house. I was still trying to tug the reins to one side to turn his head and slow him down, but Little Joe thought this meant he should run full blast through the hired man’s yard.

I paled, if that was even possible, when I realized he was heading right for the backyard clotheslines! I risked greatly being cut in two. Little Joe could go under the lines but, sitting on him, I couldn’t. I instinctively ducked down on the left and clung, hidden, to Little Joe’s side, just like the Indians did in battle or in hunting, which I had seen at rodeos.

I appeared in one piece on the other side of the clotheslines with the goddam horse still underneath me. I was very, very surprised that my trick had worked, and I think the horse was too, but anyway I sat up again.

Next in our path of destruction was an out-of-control race through our large, carefully planted vegetable garden located between the hired man’s house and the machine yard. Corn and beans went flying from under this 1200-pound devil’s feet.

Dad and Hilliard were still standing where they had been, looking on with some interest, in the machine yard on the other side of the picket fence.

I feared that horse was going to run right through or over the picket fence next, but Little Joe must have realized that the man who fed him his oats every night was standing on the other side, so he put on the brakes and went from 60 to zero in about 2 yards and stood docile, blowing a little. I do believe I fell off as much as dismounted, because my knees had developed a pretty good tremor.

“Well,” said Hilliard with a twinkle, “had a good ride?”

I wanted to strangle him. BOTH of them, owner and horse, and maybe my dad too for good measure.

“Yeah,” I said, as straight-faced as I could manage. “Pretty good ride.” I have embarrassed myself to whine.

And the Code of the West remained unbroken for another day.