“Ride ‘Em Cowboy!”

By Gregory Clark, June 14, 1930.

“My doctor,” said Merrill, “has ordered me to take up horse-back riding.”

“You’ll require a horse,” said I doing something else.

“Horse-back riding,” said Merrill, “is good for the liver, it jounces you around and makes up in one hour for all the jiggling your insides could get from a year’s work with pick and shovel.”

“Have you ever ridden?”

“No,” said Merrill. “I am told there is a kind of electric spark that passes from the horse to the rider as he bounces up and down which does a man a great vitality.”

“I think you’ll enjoy riding,” said I, “if you can persuade a horse that it will.”

“I am counting on you,” said Merrill. “You can teach me to ride. You were with the cavalry in the war, weren’t you?”

“Mounted Rifles,” said I, quickly.

“The same thing,” said Merrill. “When can you come with me?”

Of course, it wasn’t the same thing by any means. The Mounted Rifles may have intended to have horses but all of the time I knew them, they were just plain gravel crushers. Any riding I did in France was on a lorry. But men are silly. No sooner are they flattered with the notion that they were dashing cavalry men than they submit themselves to situations which are unbearable.

So I stand here writing this – I’ve had my typewriter set up on a high desk so I don’t have to sit down – I realize that the most cowardly part of a man is his tongue. Why didn’t I briskly tell Merrill that I knew nothing whatsoever about horses? But no:

“Any time you say,” said I. “Make arrangements for a couple of horses and I’ll go any day”

And the following noon, Merrill phoned to say that he had made arrangements with a riding academy up Yonge St. for that very afternoon. He would pick me up in his car.

Merrill called at the office in riding clothes, hard hat, shiny boots – as if he were a life long member of the Hunt Club.

“Where’s your bag?” asked Merrill.

“I’ve no bag,” said I.

“But your britches,” said Merrill. “How will you ride without britches?”

“The Mounted Rifles never rode in britches and always rode in trousers.”

“The academy fellow said to be sure to wear britches,” said Merrill.

Anyway, we arrived in a back lane that smelled strongly of horses and in a few minutes of being shown through a dark stable by a sun-tanned riding master who seemed to regard me with deep suspicion.

“Haven’t you better have britches, sir?” he said. Merrill had told him on the telephone that a cavalry officer was a friend of his and was going to teach him riding.

“No, no,” said Merrill, interrupting. “The Mounted Rifles always rode in trousers.”

“Merrill,” said I, “you should have a good tall horse, strong and well built.”

“I’ve the very thing,” said the groom. And backed out of its stall a huge brown horse that had to duck its head under the stable rafters. “Here’s a good strong horse, with lovely manners and it doesn’t care what it carries.”

Merrill looked unimpressed. So did the horse. It snorted loudly.

“Haven’t you got a lower horse?” asked Merrill. “A lower, wider horse, with shorter legs and broader across the back. I’d feel more sure.”

Spanked on a Large Scale

This is the very horse for you, sir,” said the groom. “Now for you, sir.”

And the groom stood inspecting me for a moment.

“You’d like something pretty,” said he. “No nags for you, sir.”

“Oh, just a nice little horse,” said I, trying to look cavalry. “I don’t want to be too busy riding to devote some attention to my friend here.”

He backed out a small, yellow horse with its ears pointing back.

“I don’t like its ears,” said I.

“That’s all right sir,” said the groom. “That’s the way he wears them all the time. He’s a dandy little horse.”

With the help of a couple more grooms, the two steeds were soon saddled. Twice I saw my little horse stretch out its neck towards Merrill’s big horse, and both times the big horse backed violently away.

“Are these horses good friends?” I demanded.

“The little chap is playful,” said the groom. “but don’t mind that, sir. You’ll have no trouble managing him.”

When Merrill came to mount, all three grooms had to help him up. It was a terrific heave. They had to push the horse up against the lane fence and then hoist Merrill on with the fence for a backing.

“Wait a minute,” said Merrill uneasily. “Suppose I fall off, are their any loading platforms in the neighborhood where I can get on again, or are you three going to follow me about?”

“You won’t fall off, sir,” said the head groom.

“I feel as if I will fall off at the slightest movement,” said Merrill. “This horse is like a barn roof.”

I have seen hundreds of horsemen mount their charges in the movies, at the horse show, and so forth. I stepped boldly up to my small horse, seized its reigns, raised one foot for the stirrup when the little brute swerved violently away from me.

“The other side, sir!” shouted the head groom. It appears you cannot climb on a horse from any side. There is a particular side. I forget which one now, but with one of the grooms holding his head, I managed to clamber up the side of the beast and get myself in the saddle. Merrill and his large horse were standing waiting in the lane.

I don’t know anything more deceiving than a horse. It looks, from the ground to be a nice round animal, with a broad, smooth back slightly curved downward as if for the comfortable seating of a man. But the minute you get on top, you find it entirely different. A horse is really a three-cornered animal. It is triangular in shape, and one of the edges is up. The saddle is a small seat on this thin and dangerous edge, and your legs hang down two slippery sides.

And even my small horse seemed to be ten feet high.

Its ears were pointing back all of the time. The minute the groom let go, it gave a couple of little skips and, with its neck outstretched, trotted towards Merrill’s horse.

Merrill’s horse wheeled suddenly, almost upsetting him right at the start, and made off down the lane.

When a horse runs, it bobs up and down. By some curious lack of sympathy between man and horse, a man is always coming down just as the horse is coming up. I know of no other sensation quite like it. It is like being spanked on a large scale. And also like being hit on the jaw by a man much bigger than yourself. Both Merrill and I went out the lane being spanked. And I am not sure, but I think I heard veiled laughter from the grooms behind us.

“Whoa!” shouted Merrill, as we came out of the lane to the street. “Hold your horse back away from mine. Mine’s nervous of yours.”

A Horse Can Jump Sideways

I hauled on the reins and mine stopped.

“Which way will we go?” asked Merrill. “Up north of Forest Hill Village is nice.”

“Let’s go there then.”

“Turn left,” said Merrill, pulling on the left rein. But his big horse turned right.

“We’ll go this way,” Merrill called back to me. So one behind the other, we proceeded east towards Yonge St.

Merrill’s horse paid no attention to traffic. But mine began to prance every time a motor car passed. It laid back its ears and pointed itself in different directions, and sometimes it even backed up a little, which was very disconcerting. My trouser legs were beginning to work up and show my garters.

“We’ll go north on Yonge,” said Merrill, as we approached.

But at Yonge, when he pulled the north rein, the big horse turned south.

“Hey,” said I, “north on Yonge.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” called Merrill. “We’ll ride in the Rosedale ravine, it’s more secluded.

My pant legs were working up so high that I wished I had got britches. I don’t believe the Mounted Rifles ever rode in trousers. They probably wore puttees.

Amid traffic, we proceeded at a walk down Yonge St., Merrill having to slow up every little while until my small horse stopped pointing itself at half the cars that passed.

When we came level with the entrance to the Rosedale Glen, Merrill stopped his horse, turned it facing the entrance and then clicked his tongue and started it. But, without the slightest concern, the horse turned and proceeded down Yonge St.

I let my horse loose just a little bit and came within speaking distance of Merrill.

“We don’t want to go down town,” I said.

“He knows where he’s going,” said Merrill. “Take the lead yourself if you like.”

I tried to move my horse past Merrill. In doing so, I must have conveyed the wrong impression to him. I clicked and said “Giddap,” and slightly urged him forward with my body. And the fool horse started to trot!

As soon as he started to trot, Merrill’s big horse gave a lurch and started not to trot but to gallop.

“Whoa!” roared Merrill. I yelled whoa too. But it appears in the best horseman circles, nobody ever says whoa to their horse. Around a corner off Yonge St. we charged.

Merrill’s horse was going at what is called a canter, and Merrill was bouncing easily up and down. But my small yellow horse, with its ears back, was trotting smartly, with the result that I was joggled horribly, and I could only see in a blur. I could see in his elbows that Merrill was trying to stop his horse. Just as he got it slowed, we caught up, and mine gave a small whinny and made a nudge at Merrill’s.

A horse can jump sideways. You would be surprised at how far a horse can jump sideways. I wonder they don’t include sideways jumping events at the horse shows. Anyway, it was all of ten feet from where Merrill hit the pavement to where the horse stood, all trembling and indignant. For fear my horse would step on him, Merrill scrambled up and my horse stood up on its hind legs. I executed a smart manoeuvre I had learned in the Mounted Rifles in getting off the back of moving lorries. I slid off the rear end of my horse while it was standing up.

The two horses trotted in a leisurely way along the street towards Queen’s Park, which glimmered greenly a block distant.

“Well,” said Merrill.

“I was afraid you were hurt,” said I, pulling down my pant legs.

“What about the horses?” asked Merrill.

“What do you say if we let them go?” said I. “They will find their way home. Horses are marvellous that way.”

“It’s all my fault,” said Merrill. “I’m sorry. But if you ‘ll try me just once more, let’s go and catch them and you take the lead. I’ll follow.”

We walked with an accompaniment of small children, over to the park, where our horses were nibbling the grass peacefully and a park attendant was creeping warily up on them.

“You catch yours first,” said Merrill, “and then you can ride mine down and catch him.”

“No, Merrill,” said I. “I’m the teacher. I want you to learn to catch your horse right at the start. It is one of the most important things.”

“But how will I get back on it?”

“Some of this crowd will help,” said I. For all of the people in the park, who had been lying on the grass and lounging on the benches, had suddenly come to life and were gathering to see us catch our horses.

We stalked the big horse carefully. Merrill called “Co-bossy, nice co-bossy,” to it. Just as we were about to grasp the reins, it raised its head suddenly and galloped a few yards away, where it began to nibble the grass again. This was repeated several times, and we had made almost the complete turn of the park when a policeman came walking briskly up and said to Merrill:

“Here, you’ll have to get that horse off here.”

“That’s what we’re trying to do,” said Merrill.

“Well go on – get it off,” said the policeman.

“All right, all right,” said Merrill, approaching the big horse.

“Come on, now, no fooling. Get it off of here right away,” said the policeman.

Merrill reached for the reins and again the big horse bolted a few yards off.

“Look here,” said the policeman, sternly, “are you going to get that horse off of here, or are you not?”

Merrill turned to me.

“I guess you’d better catch yours, after all,” said he.

So we turned our attention to the small yellow horse, which had been watching the whole proceedings out of the corner of its eye while nibbling grass.

The crowd now numbered hundreds. To the nearest of them, I explained how we used to catch our horses in the Mounted Rifles. I said we used to turn out the whole battalion and form a huge circle, just like ring-around-a-rosy, and then narrow it down until the horse was caught in the middle. I asked them if they would like to help us. And a large circle was formed around the little yellow horse, so that five men, the policeman, Merrill and I managed to corner the beast, and a short man with bow legs and a peaked cap walked bang up to the brute and took it coolly by the straps.

“‘Ere’s your ‘orse,” said the little man. “What’s your trouble?”

“I was teaching my friend here to ride,” said I, “and he fell off.”

“Did he fall off bofe ‘orses?” asked the bow-legged little man.

“I got off to help him catch his horse.”

“Ow, I see!” said the little man. “Now then, wot?”

“We’re going to get on again,” said Merrill, “if we can find a sort of platform around here anywhere. Maybe a couple of benches one on top of the other will do.”

“Perhaps,” said the little man in the cap, “you’d like the ‘ave the ‘orse kneel down for you to get on?”

“Will it do that?” asked Merrill, eagerly.

“Sure,” said the small fellow. “An’ roll over.”

“You catch my horse now,” said Merrill to me. “Let’s hurry. This crowd is getting noisy and the policeman is getting out his little book.”

“That Horse is a Killer”

“We’ll catch yours the same way as we caught mine,” I said. “I don’t like galloping all around this park. There are women and children to be considered.”

“Form another ring,” said Merrill.

“Wite a minute,” said the little man holding my horse. “Do you want me to get that other one for you?”

“Do you mind?” I asked quietly.

The little man was quivering with anxiety to get on my horse. You could see that.

Up went one leg, with an easy bound the little man was on top and had hooked his bow-legs over that prancy yellow beast of mine. Its prancing stopped. With an easy twist or two, he rode it up to the big horse, took the reins and brought the two of them to us more quickly than it takes to write about it.

“Now then,” said Merrill, looking haughtily at the policeman, “up we go.”

“Merrill,” said I, holding him by the lapel, “look at the eye of that horse of yours! Just look at it! I didn’t notice it before. But that’s a bad horse you’ve got. A bad horse!”

“Eh!” said Merrill.

“That horse is a killer,” said I. “I’m sorry I ever let you get on such a horse as that. I wouldn’t dream of being responsible for you on a bad horse like that. He’s got blood in his eye.”

“What shall we do?” asked Merrill.

“I’ll ask this little chap if he would like to take the two of them back to the stable,” said I.

“All right then,” said Merrill. “I’m mighty glad you saw in time.”

“Would you like,” I asked the small man, still sitting on my horse, “to take the two of them back to their stable?”

“Right-o,” said he.

“What’s the address of that stable, Merrill?”

“Oh, I knows it,” said the little man. “I come from there and I’m the groom what the boss sent down to follow you two gents in case you got in trouble.”

“The very idea!” cried Merrill indignantly, looking to me to burst out into cavalry temper.

“Right-o,” said the little chap, wheeling the horses and taking them tamely out of sight.

“Let’s walk over to Yonge and get a taxi,” said I. We walked away and left the crowd to sort itself out on the benches and grass again.

“Ouch,” said Merrill.

“What is it?”

“That electric spark from the horse is catching me,” said Merrill. “It feels like a knife inside my leg up there.”

I walked a short distance and noticed the same thing.

We were walking slightly bow-legged by the time we got to a taxi. The next day we both stayed home. To-day I am working at my task standing up.

“What shall I tell my doctor?” asked Merrill.

“Tell him you consulted a cavalry officer who said that you were not cut out for a horseman and ask him if riding in a tank would server the same purpose.”

And the doctor retorted that Merrill should go in for sea fleas.

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Editor’s Note: This is a pre-Greg and Jim story, in the similar format, but with Greg and Merrill Denison, another Star Weekly columnist. A few of these stories would run in 1930. Denison would later move to New York and still contribute occasionally to the Star Weekly, and Jim would still illustrate his stories. The quality of the microfilm was also quite bad, so I had to make some guesses with the text.