Small Boy, Small Pony

Small Boy, Small Pony

Sometimes children surprise you with their skills and common sense.

This story is about the astounding skill and persistence of my brother and his pony.

One warm afternoon, our dad decided it was time to round up a hundred steers and bring them in to the corrals. My youngest brother, Dale, was seven years old at the time and rode a Shetland pony named Cheyenne. Dale was strong for his age, quiet, and didn’t miss much. The pony was, of course, small and as tough as nails. Mouse-coloured with white patches, he had a fuzzy mane and tail, and a forelock that framed big brown eyes. Having lived on the ranch for a couple of years, Cheyenne had a healthy respect for the length of our working days and had become a good little ranch horse.

Dad and Dale left the ranch yard and rode into a grazing area that was five square miles. It was filled with poplars, small meadows, and dozens of lakes of various sizes, each of which had at least one beaver house. Filled with wildlife and as convoluted as the most complex 3-D puzzle, few people could navigate such an area without help. Family visitors seldom rode without taking one of us children along as a guide. If you couldn’t maintain your directions in the trees and identify subtle landmarks, it was nearly impossible to find the ranch buildings again.

Thick brush causes cattle to scatter into small groups, so Dad expected it could take some time to find all the steers that day. In such an environment, you could ride past an entire herd and never see them.

So, this was what they were riding into. Being seven already, Dale was capable of handling his pony without difficulty, so riding bareback, he trotted after his dad’s big ranch horse.

After riding for a half hour or so, they split up to cover more ground. Dale headed to the right, and Dad to the left. The sun was blazing, and anybody who’s worked cattle in the bush knows they like to nap in the heat of the day. It’s tough to get them moving, and when you’re a small child riding a cute-as-hell pony, it’s hard to get cattle twice the size of your mount to take you seriously.

Dale followed a winding cattle trail until he found a half-dozen steers lying in the shade chewing their cuds. Comfortable. Don’t bother us.

He broke off some poplar branches to chase them with, yelled, and harassed them until, with irritated groans, they got to their feet. He drove three or four onto the cattle trail, and as others followed, he pushed them east towards the ranch headquarters. Once they were following each other in a winding line, he plunged back into the thick poplars to search for more.

As each new group lurched to their feet, he prodded and pushed until they were moving the right direction. As a quiet, patient child, he never got stressed – but he never gave up.

The afternoon wore on, and the first group grew in size as Dale found more steers in the thick brush. Mosquitoes, black flies, and hornets were constant companions, but he ignored them.

Not only did my brother have to keep adding more steers to the herd, he had to keep the herd moving towards the headquarters at a fast-enough pace to prevent them from scattering back into the trees and resuming their naps. Translation:  This was a big job for a seven-year-old and one small pony. In fact, it was a big job for a cowboy. To bring in this many steers usually took three riders – one on either side to find and gather the small bunches out of the trees and one to keep the main herd collected and moving towards the ranch yard.

Meanwhile, Dad was scouring the other side of the huge grazing area which turned out to be empty of steers. As the sun began to drop, he retraced his steps to see if he could find Dale and Cheyenne. In spite of his calling from low hilltops, there was no answer, which wasn’t surprising considering there were so many trees to muffle the sound.

Knowing that all our horses would go home if given their head, he wasn’t concerned about Dale getting lost. Cheyenne would always take him home, and Dale knew that. The worse that could happen is Dale might fall off – and it wasn’t a long fall from a Shetland pony. Of course, you could never predict when one of the steers would take it into their heads to chase an interloper. Range cattle get more feral when they’re in large areas.

The sun was nearing the horizon when Dad rode into the yard expecting that Dale would’ve ridden around for a few hours then given up and gone home.

The ranch yard was quiet. No Dale. No cattle. Hm . . .

He plunged back into the trees taking a different direction, calling and hoping to run into the child. Since it would be dark soon, he was getting uneasy. Where could that kid have gotten to?

More than two hours of fruitless searching later, he returned to the ranch headquarters in inky darkness, wondering where he’d put the .303 rifle his wife had threatened to use on one of his nastier horses. When she learned he’d lost their youngest son, there was going to be hell to pay, and he didn’t want that rifle anywhere near her. She could give a rabid cougar lessons when it came to protecting her offspring. He was sweating bullets and mentally listing which of the neighbours to call to help search through the night.

Two yellowish yard-lights barely pierced the blackness as he rode once more into the quiet yard. His last hope was dashed when there was no sign of either Dale or Cheyenne. He rode out of the soft grass already covered in dew and onto the gravelled loading area. The only sounds were his horse’s hooves scrunching on stones, the squeak of saddle leather, the constant drone of insects, and the haunting calls of loons on the lake.

Suddenly, his stallion jerked to a stop, threw up its head, and perked its ears. What had caught the horse’s attention? Was that a shadow moving near the far corral gate? He urged his mount closer. What the hell? Dozens of pairs of eyes reflected the weak yard light.

One of the pens was filled with steers. The pen gate was open – but a small boy riding a small pony was stationed between the posts. Not nearly big enough to close the cowboy-sized gates, Dale had stood guard for nearly two hours waiting for his father to arrive.

As a wave of relief washed over him, Dad rode up to Dale who, with no change of expression, tipped his head back to look up at his father. Tired and dusty, and still astride his weary pony, Dale said with infinite patience, “What happened?. . . Did ya get lost?”

I think Dad spread this story to all the neighbours over the following weeks. I doubt he ever told Dale, but he was mighty proud of his young son’s patience, persistence, and skill. Few adult cowboys could’ve done better.

Years later, I remember Dad relating this account to friends. He’d smile and shake his head as he said he’d come home empty-handed while his seven-year-old son had rounded up and brought home a hundred steers by himself. And he’d waited for two hours for his dad to show up to close the gate. He wasn’t about to leave the job half done.