The Thunder of Hooves
By Tom Wolfe
The boss was mounted on his best horse. It was quite a horse, too. This would be obvious though, considering the man chose him from among the other 350 head of horses, mules, and one zebra he owned and which we were now on the third day of driving. The herd was made up of a myriad of colors, breeds, and demeanors and we were endeavoring to keep the situation under control on this, the final runaway of the forty-five mile drive from winter pasture to the home range. The tall, leggy paint sure was built, too, I’ll hand you that- built to run through the cactus, rock and juniper scrub of these rough, broken hills and gullies of the upper Missouri breaks just north of Three Forks, Montana. It took a top hand like the boss to ride such a horse in such country and do so at a run faster than anything we were chasing. Unfortunately “chasing” was just about what we were doing at the moment. Sensing the summer range, the herd was running wide open with no wranglers controlling the front. Generally, you want to have some riders up there leading the herd while others keep the flanks together and even more controlling and pushing from the back. A herd of horses is like a living thing; a giant amoebae changing shape in ebbs and flows as circumstances, terrain, and hopefully, wranglers dictate. However, back a ways a gal had come off her horse, Bill had smashed his leg and everyone else was concerned between trying to avoid the disastrous buffalo jump of a rock quarry and controlling a break to the east. For a moment there was a Mexican standoff. The herd tested a few riders in a juniper stand and it looked like they might get away. That’s when things took on a dynamic of their own and the scales tipped in favor of the horses. We turned the deserters and drove them back into the herd and began to climb a narrow draw. The downside was the fact that the tail of the herd was pressed into the draw so tight they were blocking any chance for riders to get around them. Meanwhile, the front broke out on top into the open with nothing but blue sky and hills before them. So there we were: horses strung from now to forever and in a big hurry to get there. Our little band of merry riders, tattered and bruised but crazy enough to be having a fine time of it, was whooping and flapping our wings in the eye of this four legged tornado. After all what else did we have to do on that sunny spring afternoon? It was riding lesson time.
Quite a few years and half a lifetime ago, when I was a younger fellow without a care in the world, I found myself horseback, leading a pack horse through some high trails in the Rocky Mountains. This part of Montana and Wyoming from the Yellowstone River and Beartooth Mountains to the south side of the Wind Rivers was known to the old mountain men and in local vernacular as the Apsaroke. My grampa was there to see me off as I saddled up and hit the trail. I didn’t return for two years but when I did I was still horseback. I was a young man off on another adventure and had a vague idea that Texas would make a good destination but left things pretty much open to life, staying on interconnected trails of the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem shying clear of roads was an easy thing to do when you were in the largest contiguous wilderness in the lower forty-eight. Three dogs, two horses and I went through the Southwest Corner of Yellowstone Park and spent the first winter in Jackson Hole beneath the Tetons. Along the way I picked up a few dollars working as a horse wrangler, guide and packer for hunting and dude outfits. These types of jobs wouldn’t last more than a few weeks or so, just long enough to make a stake that would carry me further along on a restless quest to see what was over the next hill. It was a fine time for a young man without ties, packing all I had on a pack horse through high and wild country, observing the ever changing landscape from the throne of my saddle and between the ears of a fast walking quarter horse. Often, the only company I had beside the horses and dogs was a campfire. When I did meet people along the trail they tended to be characters; independent people who liked living in the “far and away” where the lights of town didn’t dim the stars or the sounds of the city didn’t hide the music of a mountain stream. For people like this civilization is happily replaced by the symphony of wind in the trees, fast moving water full of trout, and the scents of pine, wild rose and sagebrush. It was while through such country that I ran into one such character. He eyed my little cavalcade with interested skepticism and asked where I might be headed. “Texas,” I replied with vague enthusiasm. “Well, you won’t get there tonight”, he says. “Why don’t you throw those ponies in the corral for some oats and hay. You look kind of gaunt yourself. My wife knows how to burn the hair off a steak and I’ll bet I know where to find a pint of Jack that might limber your bones some.” It seemed like a reasonable invitation and so began a friendship with Mark White that has lasted nearly thirty years. Since then we have shared many a campfire and many an adventure. Not the least of which were the times Mark got us hooked up with a friend of his, the boss of this grand adventure we were presently embarked upon: Kail Mantle of Montana Horses, Three Forks, Montana.
Kail is a middle aged fellow of medium height and well knit. He is a master horseman and fluent in the colorful vocabulary befitting a wild rider of the high plains. He has a look-you-straight-in-the-eye and no nonsense attitude and leaves his wife Rene to handle the things that require a more refined manner. They both embody the same let’s-get-it-done outlook that suits the type of work they are in. Together they run hundreds of horses, mules and one zebra. The horses and mules they rent out, sell and trade to outfitters, dude outfits and the the public at large. The purpose of the zebra is open to conjecture… Their home ranch is just below the confluence of the three forks of the Missouri River at an old Railroad siding known as Clark, Montana. They maintain a beautiful web site at montanahorses.com where you can learn about the myriad of horse related programs they offer. As luck would have it my old friend Mark and his family purchased some land next to Montana Horses a few years ago. That was the natural segway into one of the finest adventures Mark ever got us into. Running Kail’s herd was an experience of a lifetime. I highly recommend it to anyone. Whether you come to ride or simply to watch and if it is adventure and a true western experience you are looking for, this is it. As you can see on the website they recommend their clients have horse experience but along with the seasoned wranglers and guests they have room for less experienced folks to be part of the drive where there are plenty of ways to help that are equal to abilities in the saddle. Or, you can simply watch the action from the comfort of the porch of the Sacajawea hotel in Three Forks when the herd blows through town.
It was a sunny, spring morning when Mark and I rode over the hills to Kail and Rene’s ranch. We trotted into the yard leading our extra saddle horses and what we found was a veritable ant hill of activity. The corrals were full of horses, all colors, makes and models. Horse shoers were tacking on fresh iron. Riders and wrangler’s were saddling stock; seasoned hands mixing with folks from all over the world who had gathered for the annual round up. There were cowboys, doctors, a BBC film crew, a couple of movie stars, some veterinarians, newlyweds, Germans, New Yorkers, Canadians, Californians, Texans, fat folks, skinny folks and members of a fox hunting club from somewhere more refined than the banks of the Missouri in Montana. (Their English saddles and jodhpurs were a dead giveaway…) There were all sorts of colorful and assorted characters ready to ride. Spurs were jingling and excited expectation was in the air. This ranch was the destination to which we would, with any luck, drive the Mantle horse herd, arriving three days and a lifetime of thundering hooves hence.
After brunch Kail gave a little talk about what we could expect on the drive. Then we loaded our saddle horses into stock trailers and drove south forty miles or so to where the horses were to be gathered. Along the way we would stop and get out every so often. At these places Kail pointed out certain aspects of the drive and how to handle them. The first place we stopped was a good indicator of how this education was to unfold. We all stood on the rim of a giant pit that was a working rock quarry. In his laconic drawl Kail told us that that this year we were changing the route the horses were used to and it was our job to turn the stock away from where they wanted to be going. It was also important the horses not stumble over the edge of the precipice. “You don’t do your jobs and it will be one hell of a buffalo jump,” he concluded. We all looked at each other for any indication he might be kidding but Kail was already walking back to his truck already lost in the next part of his plan.
We unloaded at the end of the road where a beautiful creek wound down out of grassy hills. Once in the saddle we got our final riding orders: who should go with who and where. That first day involved fanning out across 2,000 acres of hay fields and broken pasture land that slowly climbed up to a distant rim of native grass, tees, and outcrops of rock. Once we were up on that rim one could see snow capped peaks all around. The pasture was divided by a steep-walled gorge out of which the stream tumbled into the hay fields. There wasn’t any easy place to cross that chasm. Kail told us some of the horses would come down the east side but at the top some would swim the creek above a waterfall and the more adventuresome souls should follow.
We took the edge off our saddle horses by starting out at a fair trot but soon slowed so as not to excite our prey. As we drew closer to grazing bands of horses they sensed it was not to be an ordinary day in the pasture. Heads and tails went up, nostrils flared and the afternoon took on a more immediate air. Since time immemorial horses have evaded predators by outrunning them and the bands took off in clouds of dust, manes and tails flying in the wind. Our saddle horses sensing the moment and following their herd instincts began to get excited as well. It takes a special horse to wrangle other horses. Even the pokiest old dude horse will remember his youth at such times. I remember one lady streaking across the pasture in a bucking runaway before landing unceremoniously in the sage brush. She was alright and showed salt by getting back on the next mount procured for her, ready to resume the chase. Less experienced riders stayed back with a guide and watch the fun from a distance. More experienced riders dove in with gusto to the project at hand. There is nothing in the world like running horses from the back of an athletic and well trained mount. And it is even more special when the herd you are gathering grows and grows into the hundreds. As the day progressed, the sound of the horses’ hooves on hard ground grew in intensity and volume. It was like distant thunder getting louder and louder at the approaching of the storm.
The first day was action packed. A couple of times some of the more seasoned renegades did their best to escape but there are folks in this outfit who have done this sort of thing before. Barb is a long legged cowgirl who rides like the wind on a white horse named cutthroat. Bill is a long legged rancher and rodeo cowboy mounted on big, powerful horses ready for the task. He can sound a little gruff at times but has a good heart and is more than up to the job. He’s Kail’s right hand man. Mell is an old time hand with a look in his eyes like he is always watching something far away. He never gets in a hurry and his experience makes him the go-to-guy when there is a question. The fox hunters were pretty good riders for the most part but I noticed it wasn’t long before a lot of them got out of the way. A thundering band of horses is different than a lone fox I suppose.
Gradually, the bands are gathered together. Outlaws are run down and returned to the growing bunch. Not a horse is left in the pasture unattended. At the top of the gorge the herd split just like Kail said it would. Half ran down the rim on the near side of the canyon while the other half swam the creek and attempted to make their getaway to the far side. The horses and riders of Montana Horses had their blood up by now though. Pursuit never let up for a second. The final push found the whole herd gathered and panting on the top of a high butte not far from where we started. The wranglers regrouped using a fence as one wing and a long line of riders strung out around the butte for another. Bill called to a few of us who climbed the butte and got behind for the final push. In a cloud of dust and thunder of hooves the horses took off on an wild and undulating run across and off the butte. The wing of riders closed in just right and the bunch funneled into a large fenced in holding corral with a creek flowing through it where they could stop and rest for the night. When the horses had settled and the late afternoon shadows grew long in the sage, our dusty but wide-eyed crew walked our tired ponies to a protected place at the mouth of the canyon where Kail and his crew had already set up a camp of wall tents. Here we watered, rubbed down and curried our horses then turned them into a big portable corral for a well earned rest and plenty of sweet smelling hay.
This first night camp is a veritable treasure trove of fun. A big camp fire keeps the evening coolness at bay. There is a cocktail tent and wranglers-turned-bartenders aren’t bashful about pouring drinks designed to relax tired bones and clear the trail dust. Stories of the day flourish and grow grand. Guitars appear and a steak dinner with all the trimmings sure hits the spot. After desert everyone is plenty full. Logs are added to the fire and the evening entertainment takes off in earnest. Cowboy poets ply their craft and music drifts off into the night. Before long the stars sparkle across the floor of heaven and the bed rolls call. The Montana Horses camp crew have made sure the stoves in the wall tents are stoked and blazing. Everything is cozy and warm. The camp falls asleep to the sound of muted laughter and good spirits but it isn’t long before the last low voices fade into the night sounds of evening by the creek.
The next morning broke clear and cool. It wasn’t long before the pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon were washed down with copious amounts of boiled coffee. Then we all gathered around a small round corral where we were treated to a lesson in what to do if your horse starts to buck. Kail Mantle was born into the horse business in Wyoming. Back in the day his dad Lonnie was famous for running a giant herd of quality stock. Kail learned his trade from the ground up. This sunny morning, standing next to a tall, athletic horse in the corral, he gave a few words about how sometimes the horses that came his way weren’t always polished to a fine tune. To prove his point he tightened the cinch and put a foot in the stirrup. In a sparkle he was seated on his mount and that was a good thing for it didn’t take much longer for the multi colored bronc to come uncorked and shoot skyward like a bolt of lightning. He came back to earth, grunting and groaning, dodging hard left and right, then leapt skyward over and over again as if he was going to grow wings. Kail sure had the attention of the breakfast crowd. He sat up there on the hurricane deck just as collected as if waiting for tea. Before long the big outlaw was his, trotting around the corral doing figure eights and sliding stops like he was born to it. Kail stepped down smoothly and said, “ There, he’s broke. Remember, when you’re on a horse anything can and probably will happen. Be ready. Well, enough of that we’re burnin’ daylight. Saddle up and let’s get to work!”
When moving a herd of horses the most important job is out front. Horses aren’t pushed, they’re pulled. Watch any herd of wild horses and there is always a lead horse, often an experienced mare. One they all trust to go the right way. The stallion of the herd generally brings up the rear keeping his bunch gathered together. The second day of the drive a group of riders takes the lead. These riders control the pace and direction of the drive. Some riders flank the herd to hold it in and some bring up the rear to keep it moving forward. On this day there are some fences along the way that help but many of these won’t hold a horse that wants to get through. There will be many open gates and sometimes nothing but open range. A few wranglers range ahead to plug these “holes” until the herd has passed by or someone else takes over, then these riders sneak up through the herd and head out to plug another hole or help where needed. This was the job Mark and I liked the best. All riders have been issued stock whips to help keep the attention and respect of the stock.
After the gate is flung open the first few miles are pretty exciting. Some of the horses try to make a break for it but the crew works together to keep them hemmed in and moving the right direction. Kail’s voice can often be heard over the thunder of hooves shooting colorful directions in earnest. Wrangles whistle, whips crack and it isn’t long before the routine of the drive finds itself. Like a giant amoeba hundreds of horses strong we head north toward the home ranch. There is no time for napping though. It wouldn’t take much to have a herd this size scattered from here to breakfast.
A few miles up the trail we approach the sleepy little town of Willow Creek. Riders and horses get a bit nervous as buildings begin to close in. People have been waiting for us and word goes ahead that the horses are coming. The first year I rode with the drive our luck was kind of questionable at this point. A noon whistle blew somewhere just as we came around the corner of Main Street. This sent the herd into a pretty good frenzy and it was dicey riding for a while. At one point part of the bunch got it in their heads to break away from the rest. They circled out behind a church and the next thing I knew I was leaping my horse over headstones as we dashed through the cemetery. Very auspicious… There were about four or five of us who were in position to gather the wayfarers so we stayed hot on their heels through the back alleys, yards and gardens of Willow Creek. I remember a clothes line full of drying clothes that was a little worse for wear after it got snagged and dragged. A couple back yard gardens didn’t need to be roto-tilled, though. It’s amazing how nice thirty or forty head of running horses can turn the dirt over in a garden. The timing was perfect for spring planting. Eventually, we got the deserters back on Main St. and when they sensed the rest of the herd up ahead we lost no time flying through the rest of town and out onto the road to Three Forks, a few miles ahead.
Three Forks, Montana, is a pretty little western town just south of Innerstate-90. It is a ranching community that boasts some first rate fishing and like Willow Creek, the annual Montana Horses Horse Drive is a big deal. In fact, the biggest deal. Quite a few people show up from all over the world to watch the action when the drive comes to town and the local citizenry really know how to put on the dog. There are musicians, plays, poetry gatherings, art shows, horse sales, street vendors and all kinds of fun. Often a big chunk of the town’s annual budget comes from this single day. People line Main Street in great crowds and the pounding of thundering hooves on pavement is very loud indeed as the horses fly down through the middle of them. That morning Kail told us he expected a fellow dressed as a giant carrot who would be running up ahead of us for a ways. No matter what, he told us, we had direct orders not to mess with him. Of course, to a cowboy that was an open invitation and I heard old Bill roped the carrot man on in one loop.
About two thirds of the way through town the horses picked up speed and not long after Bill roped the carrot we were at high lope. We managed to turn the herd off Main and onto a gravel road. Through a cloud of dust I saw a rider hit the ground when her horse stumbled in a gopher hole. She got up with dirt on her face but was plenty game and waved that she was alright as horses and riders raced past. The final push took the bunch down the dirt road and into a large holding pasture. When the gate shut we were done for the day. While Kail and a couple hands rode through the quieting herd the rest of us loosened our cinches. It had been quite a ride on a hot day and our wrangle horses were sweating and lathered. We took our time walking them out and cooling them down. A country band started up and tourists began to gather. There are always vets on the horse drive to keep an eye on our stock at day’s end. They are there to administer to any who suffer from heat, exhaustion, or are injured. The Mantle’s love their horse herd and keep a close eye on them. Before long saddles were pulled and stored in the tack truck. The horses were glad to be grazing for the evening.
The second night of the drive Montana Horses puts everybody up at the historic Sacagawea Hotel in Three Forks. This is a fine old establishment that has been remodeled to boast fine, comfortable rooms, a first class saloon and quality dining. After happy hour we rolled into supper with high spirits and loud recollections of the day’s adventures. After desert it wasn’t long before a western band tuned up and the old hotel shone like a diamond well into the wee hours.
Coffee came early on the final day. There were a few folks who weren’t quite as bushy-tailed as they had been at the previous night’s dance but whining is not permitted in the horse wrangling world. It’s cowboy up and get ‘er done so before long we gathered the rested herd. At Kail’s command the gate was thrown open and we pointed them north.
We met our first obstacle just out of town where our route takes an overpass that crosses Innerstate-90. Imagine yourself driving along, enjoying your morning drive through the Montana landscape when up ahead hundreds of horses are suddenly crossing overhead! A trucker honked his air horn when he shot under the herd and was lucky he didn’t get a frightened horse through his wind shield for the effort. None of the stock jumped the overpass but it was a runaway for awhile before the leaders could be shut down again.
A few miles rolled along. Things got exciting when the fences disappeared for a while and the herd tested the riders. One year they even jumped into the Missouri River here and only by the luck of a passing kayaker turning the leaders did they wind up back on the proper trail. Up ahead we came to a cement factory along a railroad track. Kail timed the crossing so as not to be impeded by a train but it took a tough turn at the tracks when we heard someone yell “Rider Down!” A horse with an empty saddle mingled with the herd while in the melee a young woman stood up with a forlorn look on her face. She was the same gal who plowed the dirt with her nose back in Three Forks. She stood still as stone, facing the stampede and the sea of horses parted as if she was Moses. Not a single one of the entire bunch ever touched her. Someone recovered and returned her horse and true to form this fearless woman climbed back aboard to resume the chase. Her trials weren’t over yet, though. Past the tracks we climbed a hill, at the top of which everyone knew was the buffalo jump rock quarry. We all jostled to get into position but as the herd sensed the home pastures they began to pick up the pace. Just as she was approaching the quarry the aforementioned rider found herself in another “situation”. As her horse was bounding down and over some boulders in a steep place she bounced out of her saddle and wound up in front of the saddle horn, ear to ear with her horse, arms wrapped around and hanging on to it’s neck for dear life! Suddenly and out of nowhere old Bill rode up and grabbed her by the back of her jacket. With one arm he lifted her off the neck of the running horse and dumped her back in the saddle. “Hold on!” he yelled and was off. The Lone Ranger couldn’t have done it better.
On this, the third day, we already tallied one dislocated shoulder with the usual scrapes, bruises and sore spots. Old Bill was riding with a leg smashed when the herd pushed him into a road sign at a tight spot. We were wide-eyed and awake when, in the thunder of the running herd and whooping riders I heard the boss yell “Watch out: Slick rock!!” A second later a sorrel horse hit a bare patch of the limestone, lost its feet and fell to the earth. Guess who? The same pretty girl from California rolled off through the scrub like a tumble weed. Before she could shake off the surprise and dust though, my old buddy Mark was there. Somehow he had her horse and was helping her back into the saddle while the herd thundered on. It was the only thing to do and the girl was up to it. She wasn’t afraid of anything and in a twinkle her long dark hair was flying in the wind. She was still in the chase.
The big bay I was riding had put in a noble effort but was straining. When I saw the herd swing to the north and head down off a steep escape I figured we’d lost them. Like I said, horses are sight and flight animals. They’re genetically put together to constantly be on the lookout, whether it be for the eternal saber tooth tiger of their dreams or a rider on horseback trying to take them home. Their first instinct is to flee. Add to this a spirit that loves to run and “Yeehaa!! Pard, you’d better be deep in the seat ‘cause yer gonna get yer hair blown back!” This brings us around to where we came in. About the time I was trying to get down off that knob without getting killed and wondering how the heck and in what century we were going to gather the herd, I saw the boss doing what it was that made him the boss: the big paint horse was barely touching the ground, landing on and taking off from the steep side hill like he was flying. The terrain was so steep the Kail’s spurs were at the point of the horse’s shoulders and he was laying out over its rump like he was back in the rodeos of his youth but this time instead of a horse bucking it was a horse flying. And on this flying horse he landed the bottom of the steep decent neck and neck with the leaders. He was cracking his whip and yelling colorful adjectives like a pirate boarding a ship. The horses made the turn into the summer range and as Kail pulled in the paint the dutiful herd filed by at a lope. With the last horse into the pasture the job was complete.
It took a while for the dust to clear and everybody to gather. We counted survivors, briefly rested our tired saddle horses then slowly ambled over the hills toward the home ranch. Our work was done but we rehashed stories over and over until they took on the proper noble air. At the top of the highest rise we stopped to look back to the south. From this prominence we got a view of our back trail and the spectacular country we had covered. Down below you could see the Missouri winding its way. Three Forks looked like a little toy town for a kid’s train set. The long, winding valley of Willow Creek led back up to the winter pasture some forty miles distant. Was it only three days ago we had been there? It seemed like a lifetime ago… The land of our adventure was framed by a back drop of snow covered peaks on three sides. All in all the sight took words away and our group, now bound together by our wild, wooly and shared experience, individually reflected on our ride. Montana Horses had given us an experience that would be etched in our minds for a long time to come. Bill broke the spell in his laconic way when he observed that he was thirsty. Kail said there were cool ones on ice back at the ranch. I took a picture of my old buddy Mark and then the whole outfit turned our worthy mounts and rode down out of the hills with the sound of thundering hooves pounding in our contented souls.
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