The Horse Tamer

  The next day Bill Dailey visited the owner of the gray horse. If he could get Mr. Miller to give him another chance, other serious-minded horsemen would come to watch his exhibition. But he met with flat refusal.

  “You are a humbug,” the elderly man said, shaking his bald head. “We can learn nothing from you.”

  Bill stood uncomfortably before the large office desk. “I can prove to you that I was really sick. I have a note from Dr. Patt.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that you were sick,” Mr. Miller answered, his eyes on the papers in front of him. “But you sold ninety-seven bottles of your taming medicine at ten dollars a bottle. That means you fleeced our citizens of nine hundred and seventy dollars.”

  “It was my manager who did it, not I. He’s gone. There won’t be any more sold.”

  The man shrugged his thin shoulders. “I don’t mean to tell you your business and, I suppose, you can sell as much of your medicine as you like if people want to buy it. I simply refuse to have any part in such transactions.

  “B-But it’s not what I wanted at all,” Bill persisted.

  The old man looked up from his desk. “We were led to believe it wasn’t, by your reputation. We had looked forward to—”

  “Then why don’t you give me another chance, Mr. Miller?” Bill pleaded. “I have never deceived people and pocketed their money. I’ll even open up the doors and let everyone in free for this first class!”

  “So you might sell more bottles of your Arabian Secret?”

  “Of course not!” Bill pounded furiously on the flat desk. “Can’t you understand that I mean every word I say? I want you and your gray horse back so I can prove the value of my system.”

  Without answering, the old man studied Bill Dailey’s face. Then he turned back to the papers on his desk and shuffled them nervously.

  “Will you do it, Mr. Miller? Will you?”

  “I know my gray horse very well,” the old man answered gravely. “You cannot manage him.”

  “At least give me a chance to try.”

  “Is he the only case you’d have to exhibit?”

  Bill nodded. “All the other horses were removed by their owners. It won’t be the first time I’ve been limited to a particularly bad horse to manage. It won’t be the last.”

  “No, I guess it won’t,” the old man said, looking up from his desk. “And you don’t like it at all, do you?”

  “No,” Bill admitted. “Cases like that don’t prove the true value of my system. People who watch me work so hard on extremely bad horses think it would be just as difficult handling an average horse, and it wouldn’t be at all.”

  Mr. Miller smiled for the first time. “But I don’t suppose bad horses hurt your reputation any.”

  “No, they don’t. But that kind of publicity isn’t what I’m after.”

  The old man rose to his feet, extending his hand. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Professor. I’m sorry. You see, my horse …”

  Bill felt the sudden rise of anger within him. He sought to quell it by saying quietly, “I know your horse is worthless but I’ll give you five hundred dollars for him.”

  The smile left Mr. Miller’s face and his hand dropped to his side. “You’d pay that much money just to get him in the ring with you?”

  Bill nodded.

  The old man said, “You’re right, of course, in saying that he’s worthless. It’s ridiculous for you to pay five hundred dollars for the opportunity of exhibiting your methods upon him. You cannot possibly succeed. No one could.”

  Bill ignored the man’s challenge. He took five hundred dollars from his wallet, all the money he had left in the world, and placed it on the desk. “Will you sell him to me?”

  Mr. Miller nodded and Bill Dailey left the room. He had made the worst purchase of his life. But he had done it for the chance to demonstrate that there were no secrets to good horse management … while Finn Caspersen had left town with $970 with the aim of showing that there were.

  THE MUSTANG

  10

  Mr. Miller’s gray horse was known throughout the Pittsburgh area as the Mustang. He had been shipped from the West with a carload of wild horses, and although he possessed great powers of endurance and strength there was nothing well-bred about him.

  The Mustang was as ugly as Tar Heel had been handsome. Bill Dailey watched him being led into the ring for the second time, realizing more than ever that he’d thrown his money away in buying him. Worse still, and more important, he began to doubt his ability to control such an animal before the large crowd that had returned to watch. If he failed, he’d be worse off than before and penniless as well.

  He took the Mustang from the groom and held him by a long lead rope. Unlike his first appearance in the ring, the Mustang was quiet, much too quiet. He crouched near the rail, never raising a hoof and apparently indifferent to the noise and gazes of the spectators. There was something about his appearance that bothered Bill Dailey. He had never seen another horse like this one.

  The Mustang had his head down and his ears, which were as heavy and long as a mule’s, were thrown back and outward. His underlip was large and it hung down, leaving his mouth partly open. His eyes were sullen, those of a wild animal, and his nostrils were huge. He was long-haired and at present very dirty, probably as a result of not having been groomed in many months. But outlined beneath his unkempt coat was a body of heavy bone and muscle.

  He was the worst horse Bill Dailey had ever seen and the most dangerous. There was no telling what the Mustang would do.

  The crowd was more quiet now, waiting for Bill to start. He glanced at his young brother, nodding and trying to reassure him that this horse was no different from any of the others he had tamed. But he saw that Hank wasn’t being fooled.

  “Let me have my stick,” Bill called to him.

  He turned back to the horse, speaking to him kindly, but his voice had no effect on the sullen eyes or the hanging head. Bill touched him lightly with the long slender stick Hank had given him, to learn what the Mustang would do when prodded and under pressure. He found out immediately.

  There was a quick unwinding of the crouched body as the horse jumped and struck out furiously with both fore and hind legs. But his flaying hoofs were wide of their mark, and he stopped almost as soon as he’d started. Once more he crouched by the rail, his eyes rolling now and his huge nostrils opening and closing like a bellows.

  As Bill watched him, he knew for certain that taming this horse would take days and days of work and that even then … He listened to the murmurs from the crowd that was waiting for him to go on. He started forward.

  Strangely enough, the Mustang made no move as he approached him. Bill got close enough to touch the shaggy body with his hand; the horse continued standing quietly and sullenly.

  Bill got over his surprise quickly. He was ready for anything, for now he knew that it was the nature of this horse to strike when apparently submitting to control. His resistance followed no set pattern. He was unpredictable and therefore extremely dangerous.

  Bill picked up the shaggy tail and knotted the end. The gray horse remained still. Bill put the halter rope through the tail and tied it with a half-hitch knot so he’d be able to release it quickly when necessary. There was still no resistance on the part of the Mustang, only a more noticeable blowing of his nostrils.

  Next, Bill attempted to pull the horse in a circle, but the Mustang wouldn’t budge. Even being prodded with the stick had no effect on him. As Bill prodded harder the Mustang dropped to his side and lay quietly.

  There was nothing left to do but untie the tail. As soon as Bill did so, the Mustang jumped to his feet and came at him with battering hoofs which he narrowly avoided. But this was the kind of resistance Bill was used to and knew how to handle. He moved to the horse’s off side and took the long, thin cord from his pants pocket.

  The Mustang quit resisting control as suddenly as he had begun. Once more he crouched, his eyes rolling, his mouth
drooping. Once more he awaited his chance to strike.

  Bill put the cord around the horse’s neck, adjusting it to size as he had done with Wild Bess so many weeks before. But this bridle would not be as simple as hers had been. More than guidance was needed here. Bill whipped the cord around the Mustang’s head and as the horse reached for him with gaping mouth he pulled the cord through it. Once more he put the cord around the head and now he was able to exert bridle pressure on the Mustang. He pulled the cord slightly, forcing the horse’s mouth open and drawing the cord through it again.

  Suddenly the Mustang struck out, fighting control. Encouraged, Bill drew back on the cord again. The success of all his methods lay in overpowering resistance within a short time. Only if the Mustang fought the bridle and was quickly overpowered by its force was there any chance of achieving control over him.

  As he worked, Bill kept watching the horse’s eyes for they would tell him how far he should go. He wound the cord around the head once more, careful not to pull too tight and to exert pressure only when necessary. This cord bridle was safe and reliable but it had to be used with great care and judgment. It applied pressure to a horse’s most vulnerable spot, a point behind the ears. The more cord that was used, the greater the pressure, and it could not be left on too long or the horse’s life would be endangered. Bill used it only when he had to and in this case it was absolutely necessary.

  And all the while he never let his attention be drawn away from the Mustang’s eyes. They did not soften. The horse fought the bridle silently. He bore the pressure without striking out. After fifteen minutes Bill Dailey knew the horse had won. To keep applying pressure would not only be unrewarding but dangerous as well. He unwound the cord from the horse’s head.

  As soon as the pressure lessened, the Mustang struck out again, this time catching Bill a glancing blow on the leg. The man fell back, twisting his body and rolling under the horse to avoid its hoofs. Then he leaped to his feet, catching hold of the halter again. The Mustang stopped fighting immediately, his huge nostrils opening and closing like wind-driven shutters. Once more he waited cunningly.

  Bill had only one method left to try and that was to throw the Mustang repeatedly. He had little confidence that this would prove successful. Disabling the Mustang wholly or partly seemed to have little effect upon him, and throwing him would not be apt to create in him any more of a sense of helplessness. He would simply wait, as he was doing now, for another opportunity to strike out again.

  Bill called to his brother for his rope throwing rig. He had no trouble putting it on the Mustang and drew it tightly over his back and around his tail.

  Only when Bill tied up his forefoot did the Mustang make an attempt to break away. He hopped backward, trying to bite.

  Bill let him go. He had the rope rig on and the slack taken up. He could throw the Mustang at will. He waited for him to stop hopping and noted again the wild look in the rolling eyes. All at once the horse came to a sudden stop. Before Bill could throw him he dropped down of his own accord and lay sullenly in the tanbark of the ring.

  There was loud laughter from the crowd, and Bill knew only too well that he had to admit defeat. He could do nothing more here. Outdoors he would have had a better chance. If he worked on the Mustang day after day, he might eventually win control. But even then he wasn’t sure. He doubted that the Mustang would ever be completely tamed. Luckily, there were few horses like him.

  Suddenly the Mustang jumped to his feet and before Bill could pull him down again, the air was split by a furious onslaught of hoofs. Bill dropped to the ground and pulled the cord hard, upsetting the horse and toppling him over.

  Then Bill got to his feet and without taking his eyes from the Mustang said, “Gentlemen, this horse cannot be broken before a class. No one in the world could do it in such a short time. Give me a week and I’ll drive him between shafts for you in this very ring. But he’ll never be truly safe on city streets.”

  This had been his first failure before a class but he knew it wouldn’t be his last. There would be other Mustangs in the years to come.

  From far back in the crowd some men were jeering him, and Bill’s face flamed with anger.

  “If you’ve learned nothing else today,” he shouted, “I hope you at least understand that it’s wise to stop taming when either you or your horse becomes too excited.”

  “You’re the one who’s excited, not the Mustang!” a man answered, laughing.

  “I hope you’ll return with average cases,” Bill replied. He had nothing more to say. He waited for them to leave.

  Suddenly he heard an old man’s voice which was familiar to him.

  “Gentlemen, I’m afraid my friends and I have played a very bad trick on Professor Dailey,” Mr. Miller told the crowd as he got to his feet. “We have known for a long time that the Mustang is completely unmanageable unless the most brutal methods are used on him. We have been most impressed by the Professor’s attempts to handle him and I for one wish now to apologize and vote him a round of thanks for coming to our city. I have here the five hundred dollars that he paid for my worthless horse and will return it immediately. Mr. Haines, on my right, has a horse outside who is deathly afraid of trains and he would like Professor Dailey’s help. Mr. Gordon here has a horse who balks and Mr. Smith has one who’s afraid of dogs.…”

  Bill Dailey listened to the high, nasal twang of Mr. Miller’s voice and thought it the sweetest, most satisfying sound in the whole wide world.

  ON THE ROAD

  11

  At the end of the week the Pittsburgh News carried the following story:

  A NEW ART BY PROF. DAILEY

  True to his word, Prof. Wm. Dailey drove Mr. Miller’s vicious brute known as the Mustang between shafts about the ring of the Carlton Street Carriage House, where the famous horse-tamer has been conducting classes all week. In his last session here Prof. Dailey exhibited his skills before a throng such as has never been seen before in Pittsburgh. The people who filled the arena to the very rafters were attracted by that natural morbidity of the human mind which expects to be gratified by seeing some appalling disaster. In this case they were most grieviously disappointed for instead of seeing the Mustang “mash things,” as was his wont, they saw a docile animal driven by a gentleman who appeared neither alarmed nor expectant of any serious results from driving such a horse. At the close of his exhibit Prof. Dailey stated that although he has succeeded in taming and driving this vicious brute he did not feel that the Mustang would ever be safe on city streets. He has made arrangements for Mr. Miller to send him back west.

  It is with deep regret that the horsemen of Pittsburgh bid good-bye to Prof. Dailey for they have acclaimed his system of educating horses and unanimously and enthusiastically endorse him and his methods to the public at large. His success here has been unprecedented and his teachings unparalleled in their field. What the members of his classes have learned could not be bought elsewhere for ten times the sum paid for the instruction. Prof. Dailey goes to Butler from here and we bespeak for him a hearty welcome there and the usual success attending his efforts. The Professor is a man of his word, professing no more than he performs, and doing good wherever he goes. In his teachings he not only instructs his scholars but also benefits the horses by introducing a more humane and gentle course of treatment, and therefore merits the name of benefactor to the brute race. We congratulate the people of Butler on their acquisition!

  In Butler, Bill Dailey worked under canvas for the first time. The annual fair was being held there and he was asked to exhibit his skill. At first he did not like it at all. The slick shell-game operators and carnival men reminded him too much of Finn Caspersen. Whenever he looked at a sideshow poster or listened to a spieler claiming whatever was inside to be “The most reemarkable on the face of the earth!” he could not help thinking of Finn. To make matters worse, the grounds were filled with medicine men selling their Indian cure-alls for every ailment a person might have.

&
nbsp; When he went to work in his big tent he found that he soon forgot Finn Caspersen. Never before had he met so many serious horsemen. The majority were farmers, there to enter sleek teams of horses, fat oxen, pigs and fine cattle in the fair competition while their wives displayed canned fruits, quilts and needlework. Such men were eager to learn all Bill could teach them about handling horses and he worked harder than he ever had in his life. By the end of the week he had made many more friends.

  From Butler he went to Johnstown, Altoona and Williamsport, where he had no trouble filling his classes to capacity. His reputation as a horse-tamer and educator was spreading quickly throughout the East. The Williamsport Mirror informed its readers of this fact.

  PROF. DAILEY WITHOUT RIVAL

  During the present week Prof. Dailey, the celebrated horse-tamer and educator, has conducted his classes in this city. He has created a genuine furor among all interested in horses, and his reputation has extended to a large section of the countryside, for people have attended his classes from over twenty miles distant.

  Prof. Dailey has succeeded in subduing and rendering perfectly tractable horses that have resisted all previous efforts of horse-breakers and others to reduce them to submission. His wonderful power over horses excites the most astonishment from those who are the best posted in equine care and treatment. The exhibition of his skill in driving trained horses without the use of bridle or reins is superior in interest to the choicest feature of the best traveling circus today.

  Bill Dailey put down the newspaper and turned to his brother. “I wish they wouldn’t keep comparing us to a travelin’ circus,” he said.

  “What difference does it make as long as they come to see you?” Hank asked. “The more people you reach, the better job you do.”

  Bill grinned. “You’re startin’ to talk like Finn. I wonder where he is?”

  “I thought we weren’t to mention his name again,” Hank said in surprise.