Singing in the Saddle: The Life and Times of Yellowstone Chip

By Nan Weber and Yellowstone Chip Samuell

After finding traces of Yellowstone Chips writing at the historic OTO Dude Ranch north of Yellowstone National Park, Nan Weber tracked Chips history. In the course of her research, she found Chips memoirs, his music, his cartooning, and his family.

Chips story follows his travels from his Illinois childhood home to the majesty of the Western United States. His lively journey encompasses music, cowboy life, and, most of all, people. His is the story of a true singing cowboy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462857050

Nan Weber

Nan Weber grew up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, but always knew she would one day live in the West. She received her BFA in theatre arts at the University of WisconsinMilwaukee. Ms. Weber has also lived in Minneapolis, Minnesota; Seattle, Washington; and various towns in Montana. She now makes her home in Salt Lake City, Utah, with her musician husband, Paul Boruff. In addition to numerous stage scripts and screenplays, Nan is the author of Mattie, A Womans Journey West, which chronicles the life of Mattie Shipley Culver whose grave is in Yellowstone National Park.

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Copyright © 2011 by Nan Weber.

Library of Congress Control Number:2011905892

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4628-5704-3

Softcover 978-1-4628-5703-6

eBook 978-1-4628-5705-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 04/02/2018

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction—Finding Yellowstone Chip

Chapter One—Sammy

Chapter Two—The Big River

Chapter Three—The Four Samuell Brothers Concert Company

Chapter Four—Heading To Big Sky Country and Settling In The West

Chapter Five—Wonderland

Chapter Six—Last Days of Staging in Yellowstone National Park

Chapter Seven—Heading for the Big Hole Basin

Chapter Eight—The Remount Program and the First World War

Chapter Nine—From Working Cowboy to Singing Cowboy

Chapter Ten—Dude Ranch Days the OTO, Wigwam, and the Grand Canyon

Chapter Eleven—On the Road With Chip

Chapter Twelve—Artistic Endeavors to the End

Endnotes

Bibliography

Photo Credits

Dedicated to cowboys everywhere.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank some people who helped me bring Chip’s story to life: Harold Hoss and Marilyn Lambeth for unselfishly sharing Chip’s writing and family photos and for scanning everything they possibly could find. Without these things, I could not have helped Chip tell his story. Thanks also to Chip Samuell’s extended family—Tom and Suzanne Lowers, Jim and Nancy Lowers, Matthew and Susan Lowers, Robert Theodore (Ted) and Ruth Lowers, Helen Hughes, Joe Hughes, all who helped me realize what an outstanding person Chip was. They read parts of the book while in progress, shared photos, stories, and, most importantly, their time. Jean Lange shared wonderful photos and stories of her uncle Chip. I am also grateful to Tim Hopkins for his insight into the Samuell family when I was just beginning to learn about Chip’s life.

Warm thanks to Wayne Goutermont, who spearheaded the cause to give life back to the OTO Dude Ranch where my search for Chip began, and Jan Brantingham of the Wigwam Resort, who always welcomed me on my visits to Litchfield Park and shared photos and information about Chip’s employment at the Wigwam. Julia Sweeney, Paul Litchfield’s granddaughter, took special time to share her memories of Chip and show me special places in Litchfield Park and gave me the honor of meeting her father Wallace Denny. Individuals at resorts where Chip once worked helped me along the way, including Terry Worthington of Camelback Inn and Heather Shader of the Arizona Biltmore.

Not to be forgotten are the numerous staff and researchers at archives, libraries, and institutions who unselfishly gave of their time—Harold Housely, Yellowstone National Park archivist; Lee Whittlesey, Yellowstone National Park historian; Nancy Glick, library director; and Jane Frazier, indexing project coordinator of Havana, Illinois, Public Library; Kylie Towers, archivist and museum curator of the Kappa Kappa Gamma archives; Joann Hanley, director of the Scottsdale Museum in Arizona. From the Minnesota Historical Society—Bonnie Wilson; Rich Shelton of the Minneapolis College of Arts and Design; Chuck Winkler, manager, Web Applications BorgWarner, Inc.; Pete Gianopulos, Taft, California, historian; staff at the Pavek Museum in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and Elks Lodge 355 in Flagstaff, Arizona.

These individuals were also instrumental in the search for Chip’s story and deserve a thank you: Bart Kooker, Lone Ranger and Silver authority; Rhonda Hart Poe, editor of The Gaited Horse, and Bill Bryan for being one of the first readers and for sharing his love and excitement of Yellowstone National Park; and also to the many people who remained anonymous who assisted my search along the way.

Special thanks to Georgia Weber, my sis and assistant who keeps my p’s and q’s in order. Paul Boruff, who transformed Chip’s recordings, played his guitar, and just happens to be the most supportive husband there is. For assistance with cowboy lingo, thanks to George and Gary Hossack—the real McCoys.

INTRODUCTION

Finding Yellowstone Chip

Seeing Chip Samuell in two pictures at Montana’s historic OTO Dude Ranch may not be considered a formal meeting, but that’s how it happened. The OTO is nestled in the hills about ten miles north of Gardiner, Montana, and a two-mile hike from the highway. Chip worked as a wrangler and entertainer at the OTO in 1934 and 1935.

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In this photo from the OTO history,¹ Chip stands in the back row at left with his guitar in hand. Owners of the ranch, Dick and Dora Randall, stand in the front row second and third from the left.

When I first encountered Chip, I was coordinating a Montana Elderhostel service program at the OTO Ranch in which participants were helping to preserve the decaying ranch buildings. Run by Wayne Goutermont, of the US Forest Service, the group worked rebuilding floors, replacing logs, roofing, glazing, doing stone work, fencing and bridge building, not to mention general cleaning and maintenance. As we worked, we would share our thoughts about the heyday of the dude ranch.

The ranch’s illustrated rules were found nailed to the wall in one of the ranch cabins. Here I met Chip again through his western cartooning. He had illustrated the eight and one-half by eleven sheet of paper listing the OTO’s typewritten rules and regulations. At the head of the page, he sketched a western landscape with the OTO’s steer-head logo in the center. Down the left-hand edge of the page, Chip added small sketched items, including saddles, chaps, boots, spurs, guns and holsters, and fishing poles with tackle—all the things you would need for the deluxe dude vacation. Chip signed his artwork as Yellowstone Chip. I was drawn to his sketches and would have loved to be able to hear his music coming back from the past in this remote location.

Chip’s contributions as an entertainer and wrangler caught my imagination. What were the songs he sang? What did his voice sound like? Was he a Montanan? How did he get his position at the OTO? Much is known about the original owners of the OTO, Dick and Dora Randall and their children Leslie (Gay) Randall and Helen (Bess) Randall Erskine. The workers at the ranch, however, seem anonymous. They came and went, did their jobs, and moved on. Chip didn’t want to be anonymous. He left his marks at the OTO, and I was determined to follow his trail.

In the search for Chip, I have located many sources depicting his travels and work. I have also had the pleasure of meeting and collaborating with his family. He has left his songs, poetry, artwork, leatherwork, photographs, and reminiscences. His family has many fond memories of his visits back home through the years and treasures his correspondence. What has emerged from these home sources and civil records is the picture of a first-class wrangler and entertainer during the heyday of dude ranches and singing cowboys.

Chip’s childhood dream was to become a real cowboy. After following Chip down the road of his life travels, I wonder why he ever thought he wasn’t a cowboy, even as a boy. When he retired, at eighty, Chip began writing his life’s experiences. He had always wanted to publish his stories but felt they needed to be rewritten since he claimed he wasn’t educated in writing. According to his grandson, Hoss Lambeth, Chip carefully tapped out those stories on a typewriter. Chip asked his cousin, Sara Johnson, and his granddaughter-in-law, Marilyn Lambeth, to help him edit the writings. Consequently, there are several versions of the same story in various stages of development.

In presenting his writing throughout this book, I have endeavored to preserve Chip’s original version and style. When first reading Chip’s material, I could hear his voice coming through. Punctuation and some spelling have been corrected for ease of reading; however, I have kept his original word usage and grammar, knowing this is how he would have spoken while telling his tales. According to an early history of Mason County, Illinois, The family of the Samuells were originally from old Virginia and all have the Southern brogue in their talk. Surely Chip’s choice of words reflect this family vernacular.

Just as we are products of our time and social climate, Chip lived in a time when Anglo-America viewed other ethnic groups in a way that we now would consider politically incorrect. To change Chip’s vernacular to current nomenclature would not only be inaccurate historically, but it would also rob us of the knowledge of how people’s attitudes have changed and evolved over the last century.

The photos in this book are cited after the endnotes, unless they are in my personal collection.

Tunes are introduced within the book highlighting different portions of Chip’s musical development. Included is Chip performing his original music; selections not performed by Chip but which represent music he would have played; and versions of Chip’s music performed by Paul Boruff. Below is a listing of the sixteen songs. The music is easily listened to by visiting the website Yellowstone Chip at https://nanweber.com/yellowstone-chip-samuell. If you do not have Internet access, please contact Nan Weber at 801-596-1884 to obtain a CD of the music.

I invite you to listen to the first selection entitled I’m a Dude of the OTO, with lyrics written by Bess Randall and music composed by Paul Boruff. Sung by the dudes at the OTO Ranch around the lodge’s rock fireplace or on the range, warming themselves by a campfire, Bess meant the words as a welcome for the visitor to the West. That is exactly what a dude was considered—a visitor who was unfamiliar with the country and customs of the West. Struthers Burt, an early Wyoming author and dude rancher, says, It does not imply ignorance or softness, it simply means someone, usually a person not a resident in the country, who hires someone else to guide him or cook for him, or pays money to stay on a ranch.

Throughout Chip’s writings, you will be invited to listen to these various tunes relating to his life and work.

Music List

1. I’m a Dude of the OTO, performed by Paul Boruff

2. Anvil Chorus from Il Trovatore, by Giuseppe Verdi performed by Percussion Fantasia, First Impression Music Inc.© 2001

3. I Ride an Old Paint, performed by Paul Boruff

4. The Big Sky, performed by Yellowstone Chip

5. Jake and Roany, performed by Yellowstone Chip

6. The Queen of the Northern Prairie, performed by Yellowstone Chip

7. Last of the 5000, performed by Paul Boruff

8. Hullava Shape We’re In, performed by Yellowstone Chip

9. Rattle Your Horns You Texas Steers, performed by Paul Boruff

10. The Dude Wrangler, performed by Yellowstone Chip

11. Living with a Sweetheart, performed by Yellowstone Chip

12. Happy Soldier Cowboy, performed by Yellowstone Chip

13. Rainbow’s Bend, performed by Yellowstone Chip

14. Golden Buckle of Granddad’s, performed by Yellowstone Chip

15. Last of the 5000, performed by Yellowstone Chip

16. Red Hot Daisy Lou, performed by Yellowstone Chip

CHAPTER ONE

Sammy

Growing up in Easton, Mason County, Illinois, Chip was often called Sammy as a child. He never did like his given name of Percy and was happy to have folks refer to him as Chip or Sammy. Born in Easton on June 19, 1891, to John Taylor (J. T.) Samuell and Frances Octavia Samuel, he was named Percy Durward Samuell. The last of eleven children, Sammy was a lover of animals, especially horses and mules. His father was a respected farmer and stock raiser. His mother ran a dairy as well as tending to the day-to-day operation of the farm.

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The Samuell family had been in Easton for two generations. James M. and Matilda Taylor Samuell, Chip’s grandparents, settled in Sherman Township in 1852, where Easton was to be surveyed. Grandpa James had the town of Easton platted by surveyor John F. Falkner. That was in 1872, and they named the town Shermanville. But as with other early town names, Shermanville was already in use (in Sangamon County, Illinois), so a post office would not be approved. Not being able to settle on a new name, James asked for assistance from the postmaster in Havana, O. C. Easton. James gave him the honor of choosing a name for his help and O. C. named Easton after himself.

Chip fondly remembers his grandfather in his telling of this story of James Samuell’s interaction with the railroad:

My Grandpa Jim was the kind of a man who fought his way through the pioneer days of Illinois when there were still a few Indians around and still raised quite a family.

He lived on a hill just about high enough to see pretty well over the country he had settled in. The railroad coming through Easton came through his property just below the hill; in fact it was a little grade for the trains coming out of Easton heading west. Havana was just thirteen miles west of town and the end of the railroad going west.

Because Grandpa had given the right of way to the Illinois Central that ran from Clinton, Illinois, to Havana on the Illinois River, they had given him a lifetime pass for he and Grandma. But it had to be renewed each year so he would send it in to the main office. But this time they had forgot to return it. Not that he ever used it very much which generally was to the county seat or over to the capitol at Springfield. I doubt it hadn’t been used a dozen times in his life, but he figured a lifetime pass was still a lifetime pass and he wanted it. He generally had an old fellow around called Sirus who tended camp and did his errands. Sirus was a great hand at making home remedies and the things of pioneer days. One was a good brand of lye soap which is about as slick as a banana peel when stepped on, and a powerhouse washing dirty clothes.

Grandpa told Sirus, The railroad hasn’t sent me my pass back, maybe you had better slip down and rub a little of that soap you just made on them rails. Start at about the crossing there by my foot gate and just rub it on both rails clear up to the end of the grade. That might jog their memory.

Trains coming through and near the end of the line are generally short on sandboxes. In fact this train had used all their sand. When they stopped at Easton the crew thought the trip was just about over. But not this day. The train had whistled out of town just about the time the wheels began to spin. And that day the crew was a couple of hours late getting into Havana.

Grandpa sat on his porch and he and Sirus laughed while the crew carried sand to get the track in shape to go on. He never had that job to do again. It worked. The next day Grandpa got his pass back. I can still remember as a kid hearing that old railroad engine puffing and snorting to get up that grade.

Like his family, the town of Easton would forever have an emotional hold over Chip. No matter how far his future travels would take him, Chip would return to Easton again and again. Growing up in a rural community, leaving one century and entering a new one rife with technological changes, it is fortunate to have Chip’s own words to guide the reader through innovative times. He describes the Easton he grew up in:

Easton was a great little town, don’t think it could ever boast of more than maybe 250. But everybody knew the other fellow’s business about as well as he did himself, but a great place for friendliness. If you got sick or hurt there was somebody always ready to give you a lift. And if you done a shenanigan of some kind, it wasn’t long till the whole town knew about it.

All around Easton was one of the best farm belts in the country. Lots of fine stock, horses and cattle. On Sundays in the summertime you could see a lot of fancy driving horses on the streets or tied up to the hitch rack. We only had one general merchandise store, two groceries, two saloons and two barber shops, two big blacksmith shops, a little calaboose for drunks and one big hardware and lumber company, a few smaller little places and a couple of hotels.

Those days it was something just to see a train come in. I can remember seeing my first automobile. A doctor from Havana had bought it and was driving it home from the factory somewhere back east. It was a Haynes car² with a top and one of the straps that held the top up had broke and he had stopped at Fred Young’s³ harness shop to get it repaired. Was quite an attraction, everybody came out to see it. Big brass headlights that burnt carbide. If P. T. Barnum’s circus had come to town it wouldn’t have caused any more excitement I’m sure.

It was quite a religious town. Two churches and both well attended. Even the young bucks like me all went to church, to look the young gals over. That always made a good conversation subject. We had some dandies for sure.

Chip reaches back into his childhood memories of early Easton. The next selection of his writing relates to school days and the discipline of an era gone by. Early times in Easton and the quality of life in rural Illinois characterize this scene:

School Days I Never Forgot

I never did get much schoolin’, but what I got, I never forgot any part of it for those days was a little different than they are today. You didn’t talk back to your teacher even if she was a frail little lady. She had orders from my Pa and Ma to let the boom down on me any time I needed it. Then I generally got another when I got home. Though I was the last member of a family of eleven kids, if the folks happened to be busy, I had an older brother and a sister that could do a fair job of making you understand, and neither pulled any punches.

I was born during a terrific storm June 19, 1891, the record says, and I guess it was some special day, for I remember an older brother⁴ saying, You couldn’t get a black man to work June 19th in Texas. It was a holiday that had something to do with Abe Lincoln’s time.⁵ NO SIR JUNETEENTH is a holiday for all black people.

I was born on the old Samuell hill just a quarter mile from Easton, Illinois, the town my grandfather started in 1872, and he gave the right of way for the Illinois Central Railroad that ran between Clinton and Havana, Illinois. What little schoolin’ I got was from age six to age eleven right there at the school, which was built on a part of our east forty of the farm and the end of Main Street east.

The schoolhouse those days was rated as one of the largest buildings in town. Four big rooms, two up and two down. A good well and a furnace room downstairs. Two outhouses separated by a board fence, with lots of fancy knife carvings on the boys’ side, who generally had new sharp knives. They loved to show their art ability, some nice ones, and some I won’t try to print.

Then in the back of the girls’ side was a very small peephole you didn’t want to get caught at, but we learned a lot about women from that hole. Especially the boys who didn’t have sisters. Around each door of the outhouse there was a board screen so you couldn’t see inside.

While I never received any medals for smartness from the teachers, marked Excellent, I was still pretty much in the know most of the time. I never could figure out just why some kids do the silly things that they do, especially things that may embarrass them later on, or something they know will get them a good lickin’, and for figurin’ out such things, I made the goal line many times.

Now as I look back on my school days and the wonderful teachers I had during that time, how wonderful they were, and how they ever put up with me. It’s a wonder they didn’t beat me to death for I was always in a jam of some kind. My mother wasn’t the whipping kind, she had a different way of handling any trouble. She would get me cornered some place where we would be all alone and try to tell me what was right and what was wrong. Then I would feel so ashamed of myself I would break down and bawl like a calf lost in a storm. She would love me and say, Don’t ever do that again, will you promise me? You are too good a boy to do such things. But it was different with my Dad or older brother or sister. Dad always liked to hear a wagon whip crack around my bare legs or the seat of my pants. If I got a lickin’ at school and my brother found out about it, it was a one to one bet I would get another one from him, or my sister and neither one pulled any punches.

None of my folks ever went to the school board because I had got a lickin’ like they do today. Teachers had all the power to make you understand and wasn’t afraid to tell any of your folks what the lickin’ was for. Later when I left home the brother who had whipped me many times turned out to be one of my favorites.

One fine teacher I had who was very frail kept me in one night and asked me, Why do you make me punish you so? You are such a fine boy and learn so quickly, and have such a wonderful family it just hurts me to have to do it. Then she broke down and cried and put her arm around me. I never could stand to hear a woman cry. That always got me, so I broke down with her and said, I don’t know Mrs. Edna, I guess I’m just plum mean. I don’t know what makes me that way. After we got through our crying spell I promised her I would never do it again. And I made that promise to keep forever. She was one of the finest teachers I ever had. Years later I happened to see her and told her so.

Grandpa’s Old Place

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Chip noted on the back of this photo: Our old Illinois home. From left Bertha,⁶ Ona, Olive on Howard’s lap, Bro Alford, my Dad, Chip on Little Ben. I was born in the room behind Bertha 1891 June 19.

In correspondence from 1972,⁷ when asked about his Grandpa’s house, Chip tells how he remembers the place where he was born:

I don’t know if the main house is all logs or not, or just up to the top floor over the first floor . . .

The north addition was sort of a breezeway latticed at each end for many years and later closed at each end. The . . . breezeway was about 8 feet wide I believe. Then a kitchen and a storage was on the north side of the breezeway. Each room was probably 8 feet or 10 feet square, maybe 12 . . .

I slept up over Grandma’s bedroom, (west) the night Grand Dad died and did a Paul Revere the next day on my pony telling of his death, first up to John Lynns up north of there, then down to Crane Creek to John Yardleys.

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Speakin’ of past teachers, I’ll have to tell of one I still remember but can’t say he was in my memory like Mrs. Edna. But he taught me a great lesson. He was the principal of the Easton High, a great athlete, though only had one leg. He did all with an artificial leg. That caused him to be called Corky to the smart set. Easton was a great place for nicknames. This guy could do more on just one leg than anyone else I have ever known. Played all games and did a wonderful job at it.

I and a couple of my close friends sometimes played hooky from school just for no special reason at all. Just to be doin’ something that wasn’t according to Hoyle. We got by so well with the first day, why not take another day. We asked some of the gang if Corky had said anything about it and got a clean bill. So the next day we decided we would go back to school. Everything seemed to be rosy until just about four o’clock when Corky came into our room and said he would like to see all three of us after school in his department upstairs. In the meantime, we had all figured out a dandy alibi for not being in school.

After school we all went marching up to his room. As we walked in he shut the door and locked it then stuck the key in his pocket, came over to me and asked why I hadn’t been in school. So I told him a nice little falsehood about doing some work at home on the farm. Then he asked the other boys. Schenie said, I was working in my dad’s elevator, loading cars. Toughy said, I had to move some cattle up to my sister’s place. Corky walked over and picked up a piece of old bell rope saying, If there is anything that bugs me more than a barefaced liar I have never found it and it’s one thing in this school we don’t allow. With that he jerked me out of my seat and brother did he lay that rope on me till I hollered like a panther. I tried to get a hold of him but he was too fast for me. Schenie took a run for the door but Corky beat him to the draw and he sure laid that rope on him. Toughy was quite a scrapper, but he couldn’t match the Corky system. He gave Toughy the tannin’ of his life. Then told us all, he had checked with all our families and found we all had lied. Just don’t ever let it happen again. And we sure didn’t. The next day you wouldn’t think anything had happened. Corky was just like he had been.

Chip had good influences throughout his life from teachers of all kinds. From an early age, it is obvious that he was a people person. He was a good listener, and he dreamed of a different life for himself.

Chip loved to hear the stories that travelers told as they stopped at the Illinois homestead, whether they were family members or business friends or workers who stayed a short time. One such person Chip writes about is his next teacher, the man who inspired him to search for his cowboy identity in the West. Chip entitles this story:

My Idol Wild Ike

I’m sure passing through life most of us look up to someone we have met, who we might call an idol or pacesetter, as many of our youngsters today have movie stars or baseball players.

I had one of neither but an idol who left with me a spot like a broken speck on your glasses. I could never wipe that idol from my memory. Yet today I look back at him with admiration and envy, for he was one I would have liked to travel with the rest of my life.

Just a common fellow like millions of others, yet he had to me what a movie critic might call public appeal. I always wanted to be a cowboy when a kid and though I have known many of the world’s greatest cowboys, he was still my idol. We never knew his real name though he was with us for some time. When one would ask him his name he always answered the same, Just call me Wild Ike.

When Ike rode into our place one evening, I thought it was someone sent from heaven for me to meet. Just what I had dreamed the way a real cowboy should look. He had on a hat like you see in Charley Russell’s paintings, a big silk handkerchief around his neck, a beaded vest, eighteen-inch high-heeled boots with silver inlaid spurs, a belt made of rattlesnake skin and riding on a fine handmade heavy saddle with the first Navajo colored blanket under it I had ever seen. His hot roll for his few belongings was tied just back of the cantle and I’ll never forget the clank of that spade bit his horse kept rolling. His bridle was made of hand-braided rawhide with what we call one piece rein and romal, which is like a quirt and hangs nearly to the ground and is looped through the rein at the place just above where your hand would be holding the reins. His horse was a dark bay in the 1,100 pound range and thin like he was a racehorse but a wonderful animal anyone could see.

Ike was a thin man like his horse, dark hair and fairly long, smooth shaved and about five eleven tall. Burnt the color of tanned buckskin he looked like his horse, ready like a panther all the time.

He rode up just between our windmill and the yard gate where he met my father. Never got off his horse just throwed his leg over the saddle horn to rest on his lass rope, pushed back that big black hat and smiled saying, You look like the ramrod of this spread, and I was told down at the river you had some horses to break. Forgot yer name.

Dad says, "Yes. My name is John Samuell. Looks like you have come quite a piece but you have a cracken’ good horse if I ever seen one. Ike had started a cigarette with the speed and practice of a professional roller.

Then he put his hand on the horse’s neck and says, Yep, Old Velocipher here is a perty fair kind of a pony.

Dad says, Where do you hail from?

Chip’s Cowboy Terms

Chip uses various terms throughout his writing that relate to horses and the tack used for saddles as well as cowboying in general.

Hot roll is a cowboy’s bedding.

The cantle is the curved back part of a saddle.

A spade bit has an extension that presses against the roof of the horse’s mouth when being reined. For expert riders, this is a good bit but can be cruel in the hands of an inexperienced rider. The bit is usually balanced by buttons, fancy knots, or weights along the reins.

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According to Webster’s New International Dictionary the term romal is used in Southwestern United States and Mexico and refers to a thong which is usually braided and divided into two lashes which attaches to the saddle or reins and is used as a quirt. In the Cowboy Encyclopedia, by Bruce Grant, the romal is a long quirt or whip attached to the end of closed reins. The romal has no stiffening in the handle, and with the lash usually measures about four feet in length.

Lass rope was another term Chip used for lariat.

A latigo is a leather strap used to fasten the cinch to the rigging ring on the saddle.

Skirts are a part of the saddle—a curved leather plate which rests on the horse’s back.

A curb bit has a small strap, braided or plain, or a chain which rests under the groove. When the reins are pulled this strap or chain presses against the horses’ jaw.

A McCarty, also called mecate, is a braided horsehair rope.

A martingale is a part of the harness designed to prevent an animal from throwing its head back.

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The illustration at the right shows a headstall which is the part of the bridle that fits over the horse’s head.

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Winding a horse is the practice of exercising a horse to make him manageable.

Rack is a type of gait in which the horse moves both legs on the same side simultaneously. Fox-trot is the gait between a walk and a trot.

A lap and tap race starts with all the contestants lining up with no gate and being given the signal to go.

Racing plates are horseshoes made specifically for racing.

Double rigged means there are two cinches, one forward and the other behind the seat or flank. Twelve and one-half tree is the measurement, in inches, of the saddle tree.

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Ike answered, Wyomin’ and I make business of breakin’ other people’s horses. They call me Wild Ike.

Dad says, Is that yer real name?

Well, sir, hit’s the one I always answer to. Name don’t amount to much anyway. Hit’s what you can do that counts.

That sold an order to Dad right quick cause all our family of horse-loving people never went by pedigree. And Uncle Billy⁸ used to say, Makes no difference who his daddy was, or his maw, if he can’t run he ain’t worth a quarter.

Dad says, Get down and spend the night. Maybe we can work up a trade of some kind. I’ll show you where you can put yer horse.

Ike lifted the reins over Velocipher’s head, then just hooked them up over the saddle horn. We went into the lot where he watered his horse from the trough, then on to the barn, Velocipher right at Ike’s heels all the way.

Dad opened a door into the middle box stall, which had plenty of good clean bedding and says, Jest put him in there.

Ike stepped in and his horse right behind as he loosed his hot roll from the saddle he says, This is a perty good campsite old boy, ain’t it? He lay the hot roll down in the back part of the stall, then pulled the bridle off. ’Twas the first time we had ever seen a Spanish spade bit.

By that time Howard,⁹ and Jack, a fellow who was a regular grub liner at our place, came up. Howard says, That looks like a real mouthful for a horse, when he looked at the bridle and bit, Bet you could really break a horse’s jaw with that outfit.

Ike answered right quick, No, they call them kind Spanish spades. They are a perty severe bit but good ones handled right, you can sure put a rein on an old pony with them.

Dad picked it up and says, That there big roller is what was making that clankin’ noise ain’t it?

Yep. They call that a slobber roller. If you are ridin’ a dry country a horse can keep moisture in his mouth by rollin’ that. And besides hit makes a little music fer the rider as he goes along.

’Twas then I noticed the little bells on the sides of his spurs. They made a kind of jingling noise like music.

Also, Ike says as he seen me looking at his spurs, "Them helps a little bit also to make the trip shorter son. But both the bit and spur have to be made of very fine steel or you don’t get any