Biscuits & Tenderfoot for Breakfast

John Branch, in an article which appeared in The New York Times titled “The Ride of Their Lives” wrote, “But rodeo careers can end without warning, as quick as the next try at an eight-second ride.”

At this point in my life, my experience with riding any creature with hooves has been limited to guided trail rides and my stint as an actor in The Shepherd of the Hills outdoor drama in Branson, Missouri. Those horses are well-trained, tame as house cats, and know the routes better than the riders. I started working at “the farm” as we called The Shepherd of the Hills Homestead and Outdoor Theatre when I was twenty years old. I was cast in the role of the city slicker, Ollie Stewart, the comedic villain hell-bent on taking the beautiful Sammy Lane from her idyllic home in the Ozarks to Chicago. Each actor in the company was cast in three different roles. When I wasn’t playing the simpering Ollie, I either danced in the square dance scene at the end of act one or “rode Baldknobber.”

If you’re not familiar with the Baldknobbers, they were a vigilante group that arose in the Ozarks at the end of the Civil War. Originally formed as a militia designed to keep carpetbaggers—and the government—from interfering with the good folks living in the area, their intentions are soon corrupted from within the organization. Harold Bell Wright’s novel, from which the outdoor drama is derived, depicted the group’s dark side. Riding Baldknobber meant I wore the black mask and horns typical of the group, rode in with my fellow thugs while whooping and hollering, and threw a torch onto Old Matt’s cabin, setting it ablaze. The burning of the cabin was a sensational spectacle. Audiences usually gasped as the heat from the whooshing flames washed over them.

The actors who played the lead Baldknobbers were brawny, their shoulders twice as wide as mine. Many were former rodeo guys now past their prime. I weighed about a buck thirty, and my intense asthma prevented me from gracing any gymnasium. Their beards were thick and long and stuck out from under their masks. I could hardly grow facial hair. Luther, the lead rider, handed me a mask and said, “Ever rode before?” I was nervous. I held the torch so tight my hand ached. “Well, a pony ride once at the county fair. I think.” “Uh huh. Look, the horse knows where to go. Don’t fight him. When I give the signal, he’ll run. Fast. He’ll spin by the cabin, so just throw the torch at it. Then give him a bit of a goose, and he’ll follow me.” He held his eyes on mine for a long moment, searching for something. “You know what? Just hold on.”

I patted the nose of my black horse and he snorted. I stepped back.

“What’s his name?” Without missing a beat, Luther said, “Him? Widowmaker.” He chuckled as he spat tobacco. Some of it lingered in his beard. He didn’t even try to wipe it off. I guess he was saving it for later. “Mount up.”

I watched my fellow Baldknobbers swing into their saddles. Their moves were well-oiled, making it look as easy as walking across the street. After two or three tries, which earned me several muffled snickers, I was up. The saddle was hard, the horse hot and powerful. I could feel him breathing and his muscles ripple as he shrugged off a horsefly. I grabbed the reins with both hands (I was told later my grip was called “plow reigning”). Luther shook his head. “Ease off, Michael.”

As Luther rode past me to assume the head of the pack, I glanced about. We looked tough. Scary. Black masks. Guns. Blazing torches. I sat up a little higher and made my best attempt at capturing the smoldering look I saw in the eyes of the other actors. Luther lifted his hand in the air. The horses tensed. “Hyah!” The horses pounded the sawdust-covered ground of the outdoor stage, breaking into a dead run as soon as they crossed into the beams of the stage lights. I was elated. The wind whipped at my mask and Widowmaker’s mane. Instead of the typical, “Ooh! Aah!” we heard from the crowd, we heard something inexplicable.

Laughter. The crowd was laughing. I learned later that a five-year-old kid stood up in his chair, and pointed at us. “Look! Bunnies!”

That eight-second ride ended my career as a Baldknobber. I didn’t break a bone. No rodeo clown risked his life to protect me from an angry bull. A five-yearold laughed at me while I was dressed like a demonic Bugs Bunny.

When Casey Cowan told me he wanted this issue of Saddlebag Dispatches to have a rodeo theme, I was astride Widowmaker again and wondering if I could make this ride count. Dear reader, if you point and laugh, know that my eight seconds as editor-in-chief are up. If you smile, laugh, and enjoy the work contained herein as much as Dennis and I have, then perhaps I’ll try that ride again someday.

Hyah!

Michael Frizell, Editor-in-Chief