The Horse Tamer Page 3

  “It’s a large stall,” Mr. Boyer said defensively. “She has plenty of room, as you’ll see for yourself. You don’t need to feel sorry for her.”

  Bill shook his head. “But you encouraged her to resist control,” he said. “No wonder she’s become vicious.”

  “I’m a farmer,” the man replied, “not a horse-tamer. I expect obedience from my animals and not a fight every time I go near them.”

  “Obedience has to be taught,” Bill pointed out, “or encouraged, anyway. You’ve done nothing for this mare.”

  “And what will you do?” the farmer asked sharply. He was becoming irritated by Bill Dailey’s criticism and self-reliant air.

  “First, I’ve got to teach her all over again that she can be controlled. You’ve made resistance very exciting to her.”

  The farmer grinned. “I suspect you’re goin’ to find it pretty exciting yourself, son. It’ll be worth the money just to watch the show you an’ Wild Bess put on.”

  “I’m not puttin’ on any show,” Bill replied quietly. “What I do for your mare will only be the beginning. Once I get her used to bein’ handled again you’ve got to treat her right. She’s got to get over whatever resentment she’s built up against people. You can do it just as easy as you made biting an exciting game for her. Win her confidence by good, kind handling. It won’t take long. It never does.”

  “You get her so she can be handled and I’ll take care of the rest,” the farmer retorted. “You talk good but I’m wonderin’ just how far you’re going to get with Wild Bess.”

  When they returned to the barn a little later, Mr. Boyer’s neighbors were awaiting them. One man eyed the thin cord Bill Dailey carried in his hand and said, “ ’Pears to me you’re goin’ to be needing a lot more than that, mister.”

  “At least a ten-foot pole,” another joined in, laughing. “I guess he’s never seen Wild Bess, hey, boys?”

  They went to the second floor of the barn, where there was a large entryway flanked by haymows. A box stall could be seen at the far end.

  “You’ll have plenty of room here,” the farmer said, sliding shut the two large barn doors behind them.

  Bill nodded, meanwhile watching Mr. Boyer’s neighbors climb the rungs of a ladder to sit on a high beam. “You’d better get up there, too,” he told his brother and Finn Caspersen.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a pole?” Wild Bess’s owner asked. “She’s not even wearin’ a halter.”

  “Then I’ll need a slip-noose halter,” Bill replied. “That’s all. Then you can go too. I’ll open the door myself.”

  A few minutes later he walked toward the stall. He was anxious to see Wild Bess for he had learned to associate a horse’s disposition and character with its color, eyes, ears and contours. He wasn’t often wrong, and knowing what to expect gave him an advantage over the animal.

  Reaching the stall, Bill Dailey looked inside and knew immediately that Mr. Boyer had not been exaggerating the mare’s ferocity.

  Wild Bess moved about her stall with the grace of a cat. Her medium size told him she’d be wonderfully quick, and by the shape of her head he knew she’d make few mistakes in the coming struggle. She was finely boned, with thin skin and a small chest. She was not inclined to put on flesh—in other words, she was the kind of horse he’d found to be very sensitive and active but with little stamina. Resistance and bad habits in this type most often came from excitement rather than inherent viciousness. Wild Bess had had her own way too long but should respond readily to good management.

  As Bill spoke to her through the bars of the stall, he hoped he was correct in his analysis. Within a few minutes he would know—for it might mean success or failure in handling her. He noted once more her large brown eyes, and the thin lids. Her forehead was broad and her nostrils extra large.

  An intelligent mare, one that would quickly learn good habits or bad. On the other hand she was a sorrel and the most vicious horses he had ever handled were of that color or a dull iron-gray or black. She moved faster about the stall, aware of his presence and yet paying no attention to him. He knew that when the opportunity came she would strike without warning. It would be best to meet her head-on, hoping to win control almost immediately and ending the fight before it began.

  Naturally, Wild Bess was stronger than he. The secret was not to let her know it. This mare would have to be treated like the bully she’d become. And the less time it took, the better; she’d been encouraged to resist control long enough. Bill opened the door, holding the rope halter Mr. Boyer had given him. If she had been wearing a halter, it would have made what he had to do a lot easier.

  Wild Bess came out of the stall too fast for him to get the halter on her. She turned upon him, her teeth bared and ears laid back. He succeeded in knocking her mouth to one side and then jumped around her. She came after him again and he had no alternative but to run, seeking escape.

  Directly ahead of him Bill saw a wooden partition. He grabbed the top rail, scrambling over it as the mare got hold of his pant leg. He heard it rip as he fell headlong into an empty mow which was another five feet below the barn floor. For a moment he lay still, catching his breath and listening to the loud laughter and jeers of the farmers above.

  His brother called anxiously, “Bill, are you hurt?”

  He got to his feet to show them he was all right. He listened to their taunts and tried to keep his temper. He had to stay calm if he was to win control over this mare. Class wasn’t over, not yet, he wanted to tell them and Wild Bess. As he held the rope halter in his hand he noticed that there were some sticks on the floor of the mow. He selected a long one and, hanging the headpiece of the halter on it, unfastened the slip noose. He took hold of the dangling end, ready to take up the slack once he got the halter on Wild Bess’s head.

  The mare looked over the partition, watching him. With his long stick Bill raised the halter toward her and, when she tried to grab it, expertly slipped the large noose over her nose. Then, with a half-twist of the stick, he had the head part over and behind her ears. Quickly he pulled on the rope, taking up the slack and making the halter secure on Wild Bess.

  She drew back hard but he had good leverage and held her with little trouble.

  She came at him when he climbed to the top of the partition but Bill kept her away by shoving the end of the stick against her jaw. Jumping down onto the barn floor, he took as short a hold of the halter rope as he possibly could—but he still didn’t know exactly what he was going to do to win control of the mare.

  Suddenly Wild Bess reached for him, her head as pointed as a snake’s. Bill jumped away, pulling her head around and staying close to her hindquarters. Her long tail cut the air and without thinking he grabbed the tail with his free hand and hung on. She spun him around and he barely kept on his feet as they made several tight circles.

  He ran hard in an effort to stay with her, realizing that he couldn’t let go of either halter rope or tail. If he did he’d be dragged under her hoofs. Worked up as she was, she wouldn’t hesitate to strike as well as bite.

  Around and around they whirled, Bill Dailey hoping desperately he’d been right in his estimate of her and that Wild Bess had little endurance. He kept his eyes wide open to keep from getting dizzy. The mare went around many times before there was any noticeable slowing of her turns. Finally she came to a stop, her eyes rolling, her legs unsteady.

  Bill took advantage of her immobility by running around to the other side of her before catching hold of her tail again. Once more he pulled her head toward him, and this time he turned her slowly in reverse circles. She went around only a few times. Then she dropped to the barn floor, dizzy, dazed and helpless.

  “Now Wild Bess is not so wild,” Bill said, breathing heavily. “We got one more thing to do, Bess, you and I, just one more thing.” He took the long cord from his pants pocket and tied a hard knot at each end. Then he made a loop at one end and put it around the mare’s neck, regulating the size so as not to get
it too tight. Taking the other end of the cord, he drew it through the mare’s mouth and back to the neck. Finally he passed it through the noose and pulled up the slack.

  Now he had a bridle on Wild Bess and could control her. Bending down, he spoke to her kindly as he stroked her head. She listened to him and made no attempt to bite. Finally he said, “Get up, Bess,” at the same time applying slight pressure on the cord bridle he had fashioned.

  When she was standing, Bill watched her carefully for any further signs of resistance. She neither bit the cord in her mouth nor struck at him with her forefeet. Wild Bess had the intelligence to learn quickly. With proper handling she would make just as good a mare as she had a bad one.

  Bill Dailey knew there was nothing more he could do just then. The rest was up to Mr. Boyer. Raising his head, he looked up at the farmer, who was sitting with the others, and said, “Now, sir, will you come down and take your horse?”

  The owner shook his head vigorously. “What assurance can you give me that you haven’t tamed her only for yourself?”

  For a moment Bill Dailey was puzzled. Then he called out to his young brother, “Hank, come down and take this mare.”

  All eyes turned to the boy as he went down to the barn floor. He looked strong and alert for his age but he was no match for Wild Bess if she should suddenly turn on him. This they fully expected her to do. But they could see that this boy was linked by blood to the man who had conquered Wild Bess. He had the same thrust to his jaw, and he walked on the balls of his feet with rapid, springy steps which took him quickly to the mare’s side.

  “I’ll take her, Bill,” they heard him say eagerly. There was no doubt that he was the kind of person who dreamed of doing great things. Still, he was just a boy and they were ashamed of their own fears when they saw him lead Wild Bess about the barn floor.

  Bill Dailey, leaving them alone, turned his back upon the boy and horse and climbed to the high beam to sit beside Mr. Boyer. He didn’t talk to the farmer or anyone else, and his eyes were filled with scorn.

  Below on the barn floor, Hank Dailey continued to walk the mare. She followed his commands on the cord bridle, and he stopped her often to fondle her as his brother had done. Finally he looked up.

  “Bill,” he called, “is it all right if I ride her? Is it?

  That’ll show ’em like nothing else.”

  Mr. Boyer turned to Bill Dailey. “No one’s been on her back in over a year. Don’t let him. You’ll be carrying your luck too far.”

  “Go ahead, Hank,” Bill called to his brother. “Show ’em you can do what you want with her. Show ’em it takes only a little nerve an’ a lot of kindness to win the respect an’ confidence of most horses.”

  They saw the boy mount Wild Bess and ride from one end of the barn to the other. After many minutes of watchful silence Mr. Boyer said, “I guess you must be the best horse-tamer in the world, Mr. Dailey.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m no better than you are. Just remember that you promised to handle her every day, an’ to treat her kindly without lettin’ her have her own way. That’s where the trouble really started. You give this kind of mare an inch an’ she’ll walk away with you. But she’ll respond quickly to kindness. So love her, love her lots.”

  Mr. Boyer chuckled. “Well, I don’t know as I can go that far, Mr. Dailey, but I’ll do my best, an’ if I have any more trouble I know who to call.… ”

  A neighbor said, “Mr. Dailey, I got a horse that throws himself over backwards all the time. He’s broken up two buggies and a wagon. If you can keep him on his feet, I’ll gladly pay you twenty-five dollars!”

  And another said, “I’ve got a kicker, Mr. Dailey—”

  “Step right this way, gentlemen, and I’ll make all the arrangements,” Finn Caspersen interrupted eagerly. The big man’s eyes were wondrously alive as if he had embraced a great cause and had visions of a world sorely in need of such a man as Bill Dailey.

  TAMING SECRETS

  4

  Bill Dailey drove his bay mare home and tried not to listen to Finn Caspersen.

  “It was a foolhardy thing you did, Bill, catching hold of her tail like that, but in all my days around shows I never saw anything more exciting!”

  Bill said, “I guess I wouldn’t do it again, but it worked out fine with Wild Bess.”

  Hank joined the conversation. “I’ll bet it was the first time anyone ever thought of making a horse dizzy to win control,” he told his brother.

  “And I don’t think anyone ever tried haltering a horse with a stick before, either,” Finn added. “You sure made a mark for yourself today!”

  Bill Dailey said nothing but he felt an excitement stir within him that hadn’t been there before his contest with Wild Bess. Maybe he had made an important discovery in the art of handling vicious horses. How could he put it to further use without risking his neck every time?

  “I don’t see why you won’t be a professional horse-tamer, Bill,” Finn persisted. “You’re good at it. Better than you are at making carriages. And there’s money in it, too.”

  “As I already told you, I’m no professional,” Bill answered thoughtfully. “But if I could, I’d help a lot of people with their horses. Too many bad horses are the result of bad management. Jus’ like Wild Bess was. More owners than horses need training.” While his speech was clear and down-to-earth, his eyes were bright with a vision of launching a new kind of crusade, one through which both man and horse would benefit.

  Finn said solemnly, “You could teach them. You sure could, Bill. And let me tell you how we’d go about it. Besides being a horse-tamer you’d be a lecturer. We’d have big classes and go around the county—”

  “You’d make a road show of it,” Bill interrupted. “I wouldn’t want that.”

  “I wouldn’t at all, Bill!” Finn protested. “We’d just try to reach as many people as we could. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Doesn’t it stand to reason that if you hold big classes you’ll be teaching more people what you want them to know about horses? Doesn’t it, Bill?” Finn’s eyes were bright with excitement and his voice had the rhythmic cadence of the professional showman. He had gained control of his audience and his persuasive powers were being brought into full play.

  “Well …” Bill Dailey said undecidedly.

  “Sure it does, Bill! First thing you know you’ll be the most sought-after man in the county, maybe even the whole country! Where else are people going to get the kind of help you can give them? Do you know of any books written on the subject? Think hard now. Any at all?”

  “I know of one,” Bill answered, “but I don’t think too much of it.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  “It’s home.”

  Upon reaching Birdsboro, Bill Dailey drove through the town, carefully threading his way around the many carriages and wagons that filled Main Street. It was Saturday and the stores were crowded.

  “I’ll bet there’s not a person here who doesn’t have a horse with some bad fault that you could correct,” Finn said.

  “Maybe so.”

  “And that’s true of every town in the country. You’d be famous, Bill, maybe world famous!” he concluded expansively.

  “You’re crazy, Finn,” Bill said, laughing. Having passed the busy grocery, hardware and drug stores he clucked to his mare and the carriage wheels spun faster over the dirt road.

  “No, I’m not,” the big man answered. “With me managing you you’d go far, Bill. Mark my words, you would.”

  “Don’t listen to his wild talk,” Hank warned his brother.

  Finn Caspersen laughed recklessly. “You can be part of it, too, Hank. We’ll use you like Bill did today. You’ll close the show!”

  “I told you I won’t put on any show,” Bill said quietly.

  “I was just kidding.”

  “Then be serious if you want me to go in this with you. There’ll be no more tail grabbin’ like I did today, nothing so exciting as that. Instead it’ll be j
ust plain common sense, intelligent handling and kindness.”

  “No more tail grabbing?” Finn repeated disappointedly. “Is that what you said?”

  “It’s too dangerous an’ I don’t aim to get myself killed,” Bill answered. “But I’m goin’ to work it out some other way. Circling makes a horse match his strength against himself rather than against his handler. He gets dizzy and helpless without any pain or injury. It’s an easy way to get control, to go on from there.”

  They passed the harness shop with its wooden, dapple-gray Percheron standing outside, then crossed the railroad tracks after listening for the whistle of the 12:09 from Pottstown. Just beyond was the stone courthouse with its park and bandstand in front. Next to that was the barnlike brick structure housing the jail, the town hall and the auditorium. It was there that Bill Dailey stopped to water his horse at a corner trough.

  “Do you think Wild Bess will stay cured of biting?” Hank asked his brother.

  “She will if Mr. Boyer keeps his promise. We’ll go back in a couple of days to make sure.”

  Finn Caspersen looked at Bill with new respect in his eyes.

  A few minutes later they were on their way again and, nearing home, turned down a well-shaded street with trim two-story residences set well back from the brick sidewalk and picket fences. Behind each house was a stable.

  Bill Dailey turned into his driveway. Only the first floor of his house was different from the others on the street. It had been converted into a workshop and through the windows a multitude of carriage and wagon parts could be seen.

  Arriving at the stable, Hank said, “Let me take care of her, will you, Bill?”

  “You’ll be sure to wash and rub her good?”

  The boy nodded vigorously. “An’ I’ll walk her till she’s dry.”

  “All right,” Bill said, but already his thoughts were on other things. He hurried into the house, Finn Caspersen following closely behind.

  They climbed a steep flight of stairs and entered the living room. “Have a seat,” Bill said without stopping, “an’ I’ll get that book.”