John Byron Belville’s Tall Tales Told: Uncle Evert’s Horse

You will notice there is no rhyme nor reason in placement of these tales. They are just remembrances that I have experienced in my life that my one love, Jackie Sue Belville, told me I should write down for posterity. That, of course, would mean you. So here goes. A trip into the exciting life of ol’ Johnny B.

When I was about 10 through 15, my father and mother would farm me out for some weeks in order for them to have a personal vacation for themselves.  I had two uncles who didn’t seem to mind taking on a city kid and putting him to work.  Uncle Evert was my father’s brother and had a farm just outside Pingree, Idaho and Uncle Billy had a ranch up on the Blackfoot river near the Fort Hall Indian Reservation.  Each year, one or the other of them would … well – let’s call it what it was, babysitting – take me on. 

This particular year I was to stay with Uncle Billy on his ranch up on the Blackfoot River.  His son [damned if I remember his name] would be there with me – the son was in his late teens.  We were to ride fence line and repair what ever might be broken on the fences.  This, my friends, is mind numbing boring.  You think, hey he gets to ride horses out in the wilderness.  No, riding horses is okay, but fixing fences is not.  I say again BORING.  But fixing fences is not everything we did.  We fished a lot and told big stories to each other and laughed a lot.

One day, I’ll call him Dean, decided he would saddle the green-broke sorrel out in the pasture.  Billy, his father, told him to leave the horse alone and that he would break the colt.  Dean, being a true England [their last name] horseman and break the horse for his dad and his dad would pat him profusely on the back for doing so.

Dean was older than me, but I still asked him if he thought he knew what he was doing?  He replied with some teenage macho bullshit, and headed out to the pasture to bust the terrible bronco.

Catching the sorrel was no problem.  Even saddling him seemed to go okay, but as soon as Dean hit the saddle all hell broke loose.  He tossed Dean to the ground.  Dean would get up and get tossed to the ground again.  This went on for about an hour.  Dean was getting the shit kicked out of him and he was getting angrier and angrier as he kept hitting the ground.  Finally, after the tenth time he was bucked off, he stomped off to the cabin and came out with his 30-30 saddle gun.

“My God, Dean, you aren’t gonna shoot your dad’s sorrel are ya?”

“I’m gonna blow that s.o.b. so far out of this world he’ll blow horse manure from here to Hawaii.”

With that, Dean took aim and put one between the eyes of that sorrel who dropped immediately to the ground.  I looked at the sorrel, then at Dean and said, “Now what?  You shot him now what the hell are we gonna do with him?”

“We’ll bury the bastard.”

“Who’s gonna dig a grave big enough to fit a horse into?”

“Us.  That’s who.  I’ll go get dad’s backhoe and that’ll make it slip-stick easy.  We’ll have that idiot horse in the ground before you know it.”

We got the backhoe, fixed a rope to the horse’s hind legs, drug him off into the pasture and buried the animal.  No problem … until Uncle Billy came to the ranch and asked about the sorrel horse in the pasture, who was no longer in the pasture.  “Wolves,” Said Dean.  “Got him and eat him up.  Byron and me buried what’s left out there in the pasture.”  Uncle Billy nodded and walked off.

Later that day, my uncle cornered me by the barn and asked about he sorrel.  I had to back up Dean.  I felt bad about it, but buddies are buddies and you’ve got to have your buddy’s back.  I know Uncle Billy didn’t believe Dean.  Why?  Because nobody had seen a wolf on the Blackfoot River in 50 years.  They weren’t reintroduced to Yellowstone until the 80’s.