The William F. Cody Archive: Documenting the life and times of Buffalo Bill

THE BRONCHO.

A broncho is a horse, says the editor of the Santa Fe Democrat. He has four legs, like a saw-horse, but is decidedly more skittish. The broncho is of gentle deportment and modest mien, but there isn't a real safe place about him. There is nothing mean about the broncho, though; he is perfectly reasonable, and acts on principle. All he asks is to be let alone; but he does ask this, and even insists on it. He is firm in this matter, and no kind of argument can shake his determination. There is a broncho that lives some miles from Santa Fe. We know him right well. One day a man roped him and tried to put a saddle on him. The broncho looked sadly at him, shook his head, and begged the fellow as plain as could be to go away and not try to interfere with a broncho who was simply engaged in the pursuit of his own happiness; but the man came on with the saddle and continued to aggress. Then the broncho reached out with his right hand foot and expostulated with him so that he died. When thoroughly aroused the broncho is fatal, and if you can get close enough to examine his cranial structure you will find a cavity just above the eye, where the bump of remorse should be.

The broncho is what the cowboys call "high strung." If you want to know just how high he is strung, climb up on to his apex. We rode a broncho once. We didn't travel far, but the ride was mighty exhilarating while it lasted. We get on with great pomp and a derrick, but we didn't put on any unnecessary style when we went to get off. The beast evinced considerable surprise when we took up our location upon his dorsal fin. He seemed to think a moment and then gathered up his loins and delivered a volley of heels and hardware, straight out from the shoulder. The recoil was fearful. We saw that our seat was going to be contested, and we began to make a motion to dismount, but the beast had got under way by this time, so we breathed a silent prayer and tightened our grip. He now went off into a spasm of tall, stiff-legged bucks. He pitched us so high that every time we started down we would meet him coming up on another trip. Finally he gave us one grand farewell boost, and we clove the firmament and split up through the hushed ethereal until our toes ached from the lowness of temperature, and we could distinctly hear the music of the spheres. Then we came down and fell, in a little heap, about 100 yards from the starting point. A kind Samaritan gathered up our remains in a cigar box and carried us to a hospital. As they looked pityingly at us the attending surgeons marvelled as to the nature of our mishap. One said it was a cyclone, another said it was a railroad smash-up; but we thought of the calico-hided pony that was grazing peacefully in the dewy mead and held our peace.