While writing Double Crossing, I had to
explain why the cowboy hero Ace Diamond was without his horse. Being a man of
few words, all he would say to the heroine Lily Granville was “I lost my
cutter.” Hm. Wait a minute. I’m the writer. I’m supposed to know what that
means, right? Well, Ace has yet to explain.
So I decided to do some research.
Eventually, no matter what course Ace takes in the sequel to Double Crossing
(Double or Nothing, hopefully out later this year), I had to figure out what a
cutter was and why/how Ace lost it. Being a born-and-raised in Michigan, only
been on a regular horse twice (and the horses sure didn’t enjoy me) greenhorn,
I turned to my friend Google.
A “cutter” is an elite horse in the
“remuda” which is a term for all the horses that cowboys use for a cattle
drive. Every “outfit” made drives with a large remuda. And each cowboy kept
their “string” of horses within the remuda – using some horses for riding drag
(at the dusty, dirty end), or for patrol or for other specific jobs. A cutter
has a special sensitivity to cattle. They tend to prick their ears toward cows,
or follow each move of one with their eyes, and not crowd a cow by instinct. A
cutter can separate cattle, which is a difficult job, far easier than most
horses.
It isn’t training that makes a cutter. That
horse has to be born with the instinct. I’ve seen Youtube videos now with
cutters in action, and they remind me (remember I’m no expert when it comes to
horses) of dogs herding sheep – only cows are a lot crazier. That horse has to
turn and twist and go back again, anticipate the cow’s every move, and not be
afraid of it.
Now an actual sport of cutting has evolved from the cowboys
who worked cattle. Back in 1898, the first contest was held in Haskell, Texas –
and advertised in the Dallas and Kansas City newspapers. 15,000 people swarmed to
see it, arriving by horseback or wagons. No railroad station was close enough. Eleven
cowboys competed for the prize of $150 – an astonishing amount back then. Sam
Graves brought his horse Old Hub out of retirement. This horse had a reputation
for cutting, and some people thought he could “work blindfolded and without a
bridle” – Graves set aside half his winnings to care for Old Hub until he died.
Will Rogers once said while visiting a ranch in 1920s Texas, "It
was worth the trip to brush country just to sit above Ol' Gotch and feel his
shoulders roll, watch his ears work and his head drop low when he looked an old
steer in the eye."
To the right is a bronze sculpture - check out the western art of
Bob Stayton by clicking here.
Of course, nowadays pickup trucks and chutes have replaced
horses. Even huge cattle ranches have gone the way of the open prairie and
cattle drives over open range. And cutting has become a rich man’s game
nowadays due to the National Cutting Horse Association. Perhaps breeding and
pedigree have lessened the cowboy’s necessity for riding skills, but I’m no
expert. I’d rather watch the video of the first filmed “cowpuncher” who
literally did that—punched a cow while herding cattle into the pens in 1897,
Texas.
Click
here to see it.
So what about Ace and his cutter? I still haven’t been “informed”
by my hero about how he “lost” his horse. Come on, Ace! Tell me what happened.
I know it was a traumatic experience, since you ended up horseless in Omaha –
but perhaps fate arranged for you to meet Lily.
Ducking under a low hanging tree branch, we
crept through the stable’s open doorway. I had to stifle a sneeze at the musty
scent of hay and dust. Sunlight streamed into the stalls where several horses
nickered. In an empty one, we found Ace Diamond sleeping on his stomach. When I
prodded him with my foot, he rolled over with a loud pig’s grunt and squinted
up at us both. A glass bottle lay in the dirty hay.
“Uh, wh-what time is it? Who the devil—ouch,”
he said and touched the crusty stitches on his forehead. “Dagnabbit. My head
feels like a squished melon.”
“Do you remember our meeting yesterday, Mr. Diamond?”
I asked. Kate peered over my shoulder. “I see you found a doctor as well as some
whiskey.”
“Needed it to cut the pain.” Ace sat up and
scratched his soiled shirt. “Thought you was headin’ to California.”
“I am leaving in a few hours, yes. This is
Miss Kimball, she’s also traveling on the Union Pacific.” I brushed sawdust off
my split skirt and jacket. “I spoke to Mrs. Burkett, your landlady, who sounded
quite unhappy with you.”
“That dried-up prune?” Scrambling to his
feet, he weaved sideways until grabbing the half wall. A horse nuzzled his arm.
“Never satisfied, no matter what I do.”
“Not if you’re prone to drink.”
Ace rubbed his eyes with the back of one
hand. “I don’t suppose this is a social call, miss. Or that you’d lend me two
bits. I got a powerful headache.”
I eyed him from head to foot. A beggar would
look more presentable. “You wished to go to California. Miss Kimball and I need
protection on the Union Pacific. Perhaps we can come to an agreement, Mr.
Diamond. Is that your real name?”
He dodged the question. “What are your terms,
miss? Sorry, I forgot your name.”
“Miss Granville. I’ll provide you with a
ticket now and twenty dollars when we arrive safe in Sacramento. Provided no
harm comes to us, that is.”
He stared with bleary eyes. “Why would two
pretty fillies need me to ride shotgun? It’s a far sight safer on a train than travelin’
by stagecoach.”
“I’m tracking a murderer—”
“Whoa,” Ace cut in, fully alert now. “Who
was murdered?”
Letting out a deep breath, I folded my hands
together over the pocketbook’s strap. “My father was shot on Saturday in
Evanston, north of Chicago. I believe someone’s following me, too. Perhaps the
killer or his colleague…”
“You realize we’ll be stuck on a train for
near five days,” Ace said. “With nowhere to run if there is trouble.”
“‘Man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly
upward,’” I quoted but he rubbed his mismatched eyes. I retrieved the Pullman
ticket from my pocketbook. “Are we agreed on the terms? My uncle may reward you
extra when we arrive in California.”
“Is that right.” Ace Diamond lurched toward
the doorway and then staggered outside. At the trough, he dunked his head and
came up spluttering, tossing water droplets everywhere. He coughed and then
slapped his hat into place. “How about this? Fifty dollars now, and a hundred
when we get there. Plus meals on the train and the ticket.”
“Twenty now, plus meals and the ticket.”
“Thirty-five.”
“Twenty-five, take it or leave it.”
“Thirty. You don’t have a choice,” Ace said,
grinning again, “unless that preacher man you were with last night has a wicked
left hook.”
Ignoring
that, I rummaged for a slip of paper and a pencil from my pocketbook, plus
extracted the coins from my money belt. Thirty dollars—it reminded me of the
thirty pieces of silver paid to Judas.
Western Writers of America Spur Award for Best First Novel!
Check
out Double Crossing at Amazon - click here
