By John Ferguson

I was just a scrawny kid back then, but my memory holds the details clear as a summer’s day. Now that I’m an old-timer, I can still see the light in my own young eyes — too big for my britches, but full of wonder at the promise of my first real ride.

I remember how the morning sun felt on my shoulders as I suited up. My little fingers fumbled with the leather on my chaps, a birthday gift from Granpaw. They nearly swallowed my legs. 

I still hear the clomp of my brogans against the worn wooden porch — each step gives off a tiny jingle from those strap-on spurs that make my heart pound faster. And my hat was a straw brim back then, not the fancy felt I’d later come to favor, but it looked just as grand to me. 

Lastly came the six-shooter. The bullets were caps, so I couldn’t do much damage with it, but it made me feel like the biggest cowboy in the territory.

The stable wasn’t more than a 20-minute walk from our place, but it felt like traveling cross-country. Dust kicked up around my boots as I stepped inside. The smell of straw and horse sweat filled the air — thick enough to chew. 

I spotted her right away: a speckled roan mare with a coat that shimmered red and white in the beams of sunlight streaming through the stable’s rafters. Her big brown eyes followed me warily as I approached. 

We’d been introduced a time or two, but never like this—me in all my cowboy finery, determined to make her mine for the day.

I fumbled with the tack, fresh from the rack. The saddle was a mite too heavy for my puny arms, and when I tried lifting it onto her back, I nearly toppled. She stamped and tossed her head, none too pleased. 

I gently ran my hand along her neck and murmured soothing nonsense like I’d seen the TV cowboys do. Slowly, she settled enough for me to cinch her up. Of course, she gave me a bit of a fuss — laid her ears back and sidestepped. We danced a little dance in that dusty aisle, me and her, until she resigned herself with a huff that seemed to say, “All right, kid, let’s see what you’re made of.”

Climbing on was like scaling a mountain. I got one boot in the stirrup and hoisted myself up, nearly losing the hat. 

Next thing I knew, she did a half-buck—to test me, I suppose. Her back end shimmied sideways, sending a few plumes of stable dust floating up into the shafts of light. My heart thundered in my chest as I held on for dear life. 

But soon enough, she settled down, snorting and pawing. At that moment, sitting tall in the saddle, I felt more alive than ever. The old stable smelled of manure, leather and the faintest hint of tobacco from the stable hand’s rolled cigarette. Even all these years later, I can still catch a whiff of it if I think hard enough.

I led her out onto the dirt road that cut through town. A bit of wind caught the brim of my hat; I tipped it reflexively at the folks passing by, the way I thought a real cowboy should. The ladies on the wooden boardwalk outside the dress shop giggled behind lace fans, and I gave them my best, most serious nod. 

Other boys my age and a few grown cowpokes alike paused in their errands to watch my debut. Some admired the mare’s speckled hide with envy. Others, the older, wiser ones, just grinned behind mustaches that had seen more miles of trail than I could count.

When we took off at a canter, dust rose around us in a soft cloud. I felt the power in her muscles, and I let out a whoop that carried us to the meadow beyond the edge of town. The sun’s warmth and the breeze in my hair were as close to flying as I’d ever been. Time fell away. I forgot about chores, lessons, and even the fact that I was only a little colt myself trying to play the part of a seasoned rider.

We spent what felt like a perfect hour in that meadow. Me, losing myself to the thunder of hooves and the hum of cicadas. And just as I was bringing her back toward the main road, a stern voice cut through the air: “Hold it right there.”

I saw the sheriff—“You best take her home,” 

I could feel my cheeks redden beneath the dust. Yes, I answered quickly. The onlookers snickered good-naturedly — no one makes a speedy getaway from the law when it’s your mom wearing the star.

“Done shopping, time to go home, and no more dimes for you.” And for goodness sake, let someone else have a turn.”

“That’s the problem with stabling your horse at S.S. Kresgie’s Five and Dime,” and your mom is the law. 

John Ferguson is an Ironton native, retired businessman and Rotary Club member. He returned home to the city in 2021, after 52 years away.