--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Snell, Wm. H. collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 18 number: 10 published: 1915-08 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Wm. H. Snell, "The Greenhorn," *Improvement Era* 18, no. 10 (August 1915): 902–906.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera18010unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera18010unse start_page: 902 end_page: 906 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1915-08) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera18010unse publication_year: 1915 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1915, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # The Greenhorn The Greenhorn BY WM. H. SNELL "Come, old boy, jog along or it's goin' to be dark before we git to the Flyin' W." The speaker was a man about twenty-five years of age. His ungainly form, with slouch sombrero, long, red hair, scattering, stubby beard of two weeks' growth, blue denims shirt, chapless legs, and low-heeled, cowhide boots, reminded one of some over- grown boy from the farm. His horse was rail^r heavily built for the office he was filling, and the horseman's seat was one of the old-fashioned stock saddles that had seen better days. The bridle was minus a throat latch and one of the reins was of green cowhide. "I guess the Flying W outfit will get one of the biggest sur- prises that's happened to it fer some time," chuckled the rider. "And the boys at the Pitchfork are going to be rather short of cash, too, this month, or I don't look like old man Dickson's clodhop- per." He was not aware of two horsemen approaching from the rear, until one of the horses sneezed. Then turning round and giving way to a look of surprise and admiration, he waited for the riders to speak. The splendid outfits of the cowboys from the Flying stood out in contrast with his own makeshift and their trim-built W ; ponies seemed rather impatient when their speed was reduced to that of the jaded old horse they had overtaken. "Hello, pardner," spoke up the older of the two men. "Have ye seen any of the Flying W steers over on the Stinkin' water this fall?" "I don't know nothin' 'bout Flying W cows. I live up on Sage Creek. Besides, I'm goin' up to the Pitchfork to git a job, if I can, breakin' bronchos. They say Buck Moore is workin' up there, and he's the best twister in the hull country. Bet yer life, I'm goin' to git a job helping him, if I can." "So you're a broncho twister, are ye? Well, my name's, Ben- ton. I'm foreman of the Flying W, and this is Shorty Bates. Jest call, me Benton for short, and Bates ye can call Shorty, becuz he's so ding-busted long," and the hills echoed with the hearty laughter of the two riders. "Wall, Dad he didn't want me to take ter twistin' but I ; 'lowed as how with what I know already, I could soon become a professionalist, and go down to the State fair an' maybe win a prize. Finally Dad jest give me this here outfit and said I could go try it fer a while." The two men had passed several knowing glances while this conversation had been taking place. Finally Benton, who was always on hand for a rare bit of sport for the boys at the ranch, said, "You'd better stop over with us a few days, and help Shorty break some fresh ones. And, as long as it's twistin' ye want, ye can sorter git yer hand in before sidin' up to old Buck. By the way, what's yer handle when yer home? Say, yer not Moore yerself are ye, ha ha ha ! !They say he's got red hair and square ! jaws, but then he's some older than you." "My name's Sandy Dickson. I'm purty anxious to git up to the Pitchfork; but if I can help ye out a couple of days, I'll stop over, pervidin' there's enough in it." The trio was almost at the Flying W headquarters, and rather than lose their fun, Benton said, "I'll give ye five dollars a day, Sandy, if you'll help us. We're pretty blamed hard up fer help. What do ye say?" Sandy seemed to study deeply for a few moments, then an- swered, 'I guess I'll take ye up, as it's about night, and I can t git to the Pitchfork today." As the party rode up to the bunk-house, Benton exclaimed, "Boys, shake with Sandy Dickson. He's goin' to ride fer us a couple o' days. I'll tell ye we're mighty lucky to hop on to him." The boys were all "on" in a twinkling; and after the horses had been turned out and supper was over, they returned to the bunk-house to spend the evening in playing poker and telling yarns. ; The next morning Benton said to the wrangler, run in old Hickory this morning." "Bill, Old Hickory was an outlaw. He had thrown every man who had had pluck enough to tackle him. Nowadays he was brought forth only when Benton happened on to some "greenhorn." After a breakfast of dough-gods, syrup, beef, and black cof- fee, the boys sauntered down to the corral to cheer up a bit be- fore saddling their horses. "Well, Sandy," drawled Benton as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe by tapping it on the heel of his boot, "ye can jest throw yer traps on to that little bay first. He'll jolt yer breakfast down then ye can side up to the big sorrel that stands over by the fence." Sandy slid over the fence rather clumsily with his rope, which was large and limber, and after several trials succeeded in catching two head of horses at once. The boys were splitting their sides to see Sandy's maneuvers. There was a snort, a kick, a plunge and Sandy was jerked head-long, losing all hold of the rope. The outcome of it was, that the boys caught the little bay and helped Sandy saddle him. As Sandy did not have any spurs, Bill tossed him a pair say- in that oldHickory would play his part in the game. The outlaw seemed to know what was coming, and was saddled with little trouble. "I say," whispered Shorty, ''let's hobble his stirrups so he won't get caught when old Hickory shakes 'im." "You fellers want to bet I can't ride that old plug?" queried Sandy from the fence, where he had been enjoying the situation. "I know I kin ride him, if Benton will let me wear them feather- legs of hisn." The chaps in question were made of the best angora goat skin, and had cost the foreman thirty dollars, a few days ago. "I'll tell you what we'll do, Sandy," said Benton. "You can take my chaps and quirt, and there's a company rig already on the old sorrel and if you can rid 'im, you can keep the hull blamed ; outfit, old Hickory to boot." "Jest take 'em off, then, and I'll show ye how he'll take me to the Pitchfork tonight." Sandy suddenly stepped up to the horse with an open knife and cut the buckskin thong that Shorty had used to hobble the stirrups and before any one could speak, he had placed one hand ; on the pommel and bounded into the saddle. Old Hickory twisted and turned, swapped ends, plunged, — and kicked but Sandy was riding straight up transformed in a ; way that made every cowboy open his eyes in amazement. When the old horse could not unseat his rider any other way, he tried his never-before-failing trick, that of coming over back- ward. But when he hit the ground Sandy was not there. Before the outlaw was fully upon his feet, Sandy was again in the saddle. Old Hickory tried the same stunt again, but the loaded end of a quirt came down between his ears and he stumbled to his knees. Slowly he arose again, determined, it seemed, with one final effort to rid himself of this human sticking-plaster. The boys had never seen anything like it and although they ; knew now that they had been taken in at their own game, they could not help admiring this strange adventurer. A few minutes more of desperate lunging, and the sorrel straightenend the crook in his back and galloped off. Sandy rode off a quarter of a mile, wheeled his conquered steed, and pulled up before his astonished admirers. Throwing one leg over the horn of the saddle he said, . I 11 just jog on to the "If you fellows will cinch old Star, think Dickson will need the old horse to plow with, Pitchfork I and pocket some other and I am anxious to get back to the ranch depended on the outcome of this fracas. And by the stakes that ! — way," he added with a wink, "when you come up the river, call in. Buck's cabin is always open to his friends." A