I
felt better about working for the Columbia Riding Academy the next day when I
met Charlie Barnett, Farr’s partner. He
was pretty much the opposite of Art Farr.
Charlie was a big, pleasant-faced man with a mop of unruly black
hair. Where Farr fancied dude-ish
western shirts and that silly string tie, Charlie always showed up in grey
riding breeches, black boots not always too well polished, and a white shirt
open at the neck. The only time Charlie
duded up was when we put on a horse show and then all he did was to wear an
Ascot scarf and a jacket. There were no
pretenses with Charlie and I liked him immediately.
My
summer at the Columbia Riding Academy was memorable in more ways than one. I found out quickly that Art Farr was,
indeed, an ornery s.o.b. As for fat
George, he was everything a barn boss should not be. I do not know what previous experience he had
with horses but he was no horseman.
George’s
idea of quieting down an unruly horse on the loading platform—whether to saddle
or curry it—was to grab a twitch and cinch it on the animal’s nose. I did not like a twitch and can truthfully
say that I seldom had to use one. There
are no mean horses that I ever met—only those who have been treated meanly by
someone. (Dogs are the same way.)
The
horses, however, were a delight to this old country boy. I got acquainted with all thirty-two of them
in short order. In a couple of days I
knew all of them by name, and in a week I knew which saddle and bridle went on
which horse. I tried to be impartial,
but I quickly had some favorites. One
was “Don Dee”, a big sleek black jumper that stood near seventeen hands
high. He was a gentle horse and could
have modeled for Black Beauty.
Another
of my favorites was “Joker”, a small (about fourteen hands) palomino stallion
with a flowing long mane and tail. Joker
was as mischievous as a small child. He
was quartered in one of the standing stalls and he had a favorite trick when I
came into his stall with a bucket of feed.
I would pat him on the rump and speak to let him know I was there and
Joker would politely move over to let me by.
Then, when I was beside him half way to the manger box, he would
lean—pushing me against the wall of the stall.
I would have to give him a good shove and a slap on the belly to make
him move over. He was not mean—he just
like to devil me.
One
evening Joker’s antics could have injured me but it was my fault, not
Joker’s. I was late getting the horses
fed and had a party to go to that night.
Fat George, as usual, had already gone home to his plump wife, leaving
me to do all the feeding. I was hurrying
with my bucket of oats when I got to Joker’s stall and failed to whack him on
the rump and speak to him. The little
stallion was standing with one hind foot relaxed, half asleep.
When
I rounded the end of the stall, the bucket bumped Joker in the rump and
startled him. Like greased lightning a
back foot lashed out in a kick. I was
close enough to him that there was no bone-breaking impact but his flailing leg
picked me up and threw me across the alleyway, slamming me into the wall. Fat George would have gotten up and beaten
the tar out of Joker but I knew it was my fault so I just calmed him down and
gave him his oats. Fortunately, I had
ridden the bicycle that day as I developed a big purple bruise on my thigh and
limped for a couple of days.
One
of Joker’s best tricks was his uncanny ability to unseat even an experienced
rider. He especially picked on
women. The experienced lady riders who
participated in the Columbia Lancers, our drill team, were allowed to ride the
many bridle trails on the west end of Hayden Island alone. Often they would ask for Joker because he was
such a beautiful little horse.
On
more than one occasion, after about half an hour, Joker would come moseying
back up the trail to the stables all by himself, carefully holding his head to
one side so as not to step on the trailing reins. Unless someone took Joker back, a little
while later a very sheepish lady rider would come walking up the trail. I never saw him do it, but according to his
victims, Joker had a cute way of shying sidewise when the rider was relaxed and
right out from under them.
I
recall one day when the lead lady rider on the drill team came for a canter and
asked for Joker. I reminded her that he
could be skittish and offered another horse, but she was insistent. She was a tall lady who looked a lot like Eve
Arden and spoke with the authority of a school teacher. I just shrugged and saddled Joker.
As
soon as she was out of sight, and not being especially busy at the time, I put
a wester saddle on Clown. Sure enough,
about twenty minutes later there came old Joker alone. I swung onto Clown and took the little
stallion back down the trail to find her.
She did not have much to say except to thank me and never asked for
Joker again if she was going out alone.
