‘Time to jingle, son’

‘Time to jingle, son’

Mangus Springs

Morning

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

             If there were moments of epiphany when my life would be imprinted on wanting to be with a cow, it came at morning before sunup on the Mangus.

 The back bedroom in my paternal grandparents’ little board and batten house was probably no more than eight by ten feet or so. The house, with all the windows open, would finally be cool. The white curtains would flutter, and, there it would be … a cow calling her calf.

She wasn’t frantic. She’d be low and soft with patience and maternal instinct. I’d lay there trying to figure out exactly where she was.

Dawn

If we were working cattle, we’d be up early. At those times, Grampa’ would come while it was still dark.

 He’d whisper, “Time to jingle, son.”

We’d go to the corral and catch and saddle the horse that was ‘kept up’. Usually, that horse was older. He had graduated into the service of being a ‘kid’ horse.

That would be the only time he’d boost me into the saddle. All other times you either got in the saddle by yourself or you didn’t go. That was just the way it was.

He would open the gate and out into the dark you’d go ‘jingling’. Grampa’ would head to fill the feed rack with oats.

The horses would be quiet. They would give no hint of where they were until you found them. The pattern was always the same. You’d swing through the pasture progressing north through the cottonwoods on the east side of the creek.

If they weren’t there, they’d be in the grove of trees just across the fence and west from the Mangus Springs filling station or they’d be in the choke cherries west from there. When you found them, they would break and run for the corral, pitching, and saluting the coming dawn.

It was off to the races. The old veteran you were riding would run with them. Let him run … make him run!

Leaning low against his neck dodging limbs, you’d urge him faster. There would be that inevitable run through the little cienaga marking the location of one of the ‘nine’ springs that made up Mangus Springs. Mud would fly from 60 pounding hooves.

From there it was a hundred yards wide open to the gate where Grampa’ would be standing. The horses would blow through and start sorting out hierarchy around the grain.

He’d pull the saddle off and say, “Let’s go have breakfast.”

The Day began

Breakfast was a big meal. Eggs, bacon or ham, with oatmeal were the standards. Some mornings Grandma’ would add ‘hot cakes’ or ‘windy willies’, but it always would end with oatmeal. We’d all three sit there. Grandma’ wouldn’t eat, but she’d drink coffee and visit. Grampa’ would be chewing with a characteristic popping of his jaw that stemmed from it being broken years before.

“You’ve got a long way to go today,” she’d counsel. “Fill up!”

Afterwards, I’d be on the edge of patience as Grampa’ would finally emerge from writing in his diary. We’d go to the corral and saddle for real.

We had a routine.

Everything was done quietly. You’d catch your own horse. The horses were never roped, and we never used halters. There was no halter in that barn. The horse would be caught, bridled, and then led to the open barn door. They were never tied. An Albert Wilmeth horse would stand ground tied like they were hitched to a rail. We’d groom fully including brushing and trimming manes and tails.

Grampa’s tack was never new, but it always looked good on a horse. It was always ‘ranch’ repaired. Breast collars, tie downs or anything synthetic were not only frowned upon, they weren’t there.

I remember watching him saddle his horse. He would use two little Navajos. He would alternate them against the horse. He would also alternate where they overlayed on the stack. One would be offset, but they would wind up balanced on both sides of the horse.  The next day the positions would be changed.

His saddle, which sits right there across the shop from me, has a 14½” seat, 3½” cantle, and 13½” swells. It has a very wide gullet for its time, 6 ¾ “. It fits most modern horses surprisingly well, and it remains one of the most comfortable saddles I have ever ridden.

 My grandson will own it.

Interesting to me now, it was not until after the horses were saddled did we deal with their feet. More days than not, at least one horse would have a shoe pulled and reset (it was only later around other people would I see all four feet shod at one time). Only he would touch their feet. Maybe he didn’t want you hurt, but I now believe he never thought anybody could shoe well enough to suit him. He had no patience.

He’d go to the horse with a shoe in his hip pocket. He’d toss the shoe he removed through the open bar door to be straightened later.

His shoeing equipment was Spartan. If you had shown one of us grandkids a hoof pick, we wouldn’t have been able to tell you what it was. He’d have his hammer with its handle rasped and sanded so thin you could almost bend it with your hands, his rasp, and a pair of nippers. He’d trim the frog with his pocket knife, square the wall with his nippers, and make half dozen strokes with his rasp. The hoof would be perfect.

Without dropping the foot, he’d reach for the shoe, set it, and pull a nail out of his mouth. He’d nail the shoe with an alternate beat, spin each exposed nail off with the hammer, clinch it with the rasp laid under the exposed nail, and drop the foot. In a minute, it was done. The horse would stand like a statue. Every one of them knew better than to fiddle with him …

We’d turn the other horses out, and we were ready to go.

Headed out

Anything close in and that was within three miles or so (and everything on the forest), we’d ride from the house. Anything outside of that, we’d load the horses in the 1950 Chevrolet bobtail. If we took the truck, all you did was tie your reins up and turn the horses loose. They’d run up the chute into the truck like ducks going to water. If there were other riders, the horses would squeeze up and make room. There was never any screaming and yelling. There just wasn’t …

I loved that truck, and I loved more going down the highway in it. You’d sit up there just hoping somebody would see you!

We’d unload against a bank somewhere and start our circle.

Unless it was cold (or on the Forest), we wouldn’t wear leggins’. Seldom would we carry a slicker. We never tied anything else on a saddle except a rope, and a kid was not allowed to carry a rope. Never was anything roped outside of a branding pen.

“A good cowboy doesn’t need a rope,” he’d say.

As for his ropes, I still don’t like what he preferred. They don’t fit my hands. The rope I inherited from him was an extra soft lay, 7/16” true. It was new when he died, but it was the same style of rope he was using when he quit riding. That rope was tied with a steel ring honda. Was he good? Ask Jerry Billings or somebody who might remember flanking for him on those hot June afternoons. He could keep calves coming to the fire and two sets of flankers

Seldom did we trot anywhere. He taught us to expect a horse to reach and walk. When discussing somebody’s good horse, the question would be, “Yea, but can he walk?”

Even as kids he’d make us wear spurs so we could stay up. If you were old enough to go, you were old enough to wear spurs, and, if you were old enough to wear spurs, you were expected to stay up! He was intolerant of waiting. You stayed up or he wouldn’t take you.

I never saw him riding a bucking horse, but he wouldn’t have horses that bucked, either. My dad tells me he couldn’t ride a bucking horse anyway … but he’d love to carry on when a cold backed horse would be all humped up after he got on him.

“Well, lookee’ here,” he’d cackle. “Ol’ Jack thinks he is a real pitchin’ horse this mornin’!”

He’d let that go a little while until he was tired of it and then he’d serve notice and we’d be off … in a long, reaching walk. 

Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Albert Wilmeth will be back from time to time. Jerry McDonald gave me orders.”