JAMES M. RICHARDSON'S HELL'S BOTTOM RANCH
from Bill Coe

The following are excerpts about the founding of the Arabian-Pinto herd of Jim Richardson at his Hell's Bottom Ranch in Stratton, Nebraska as told by Dr. Harvey (Red) West.

This is my recollection of the origin of the paint horses, some people call them the Indian Paint Horses, that stem from or maybe originated, at least in that area from the Frank Taunton herd. Frank homesteaded in Northwest Kansas and had a hand in settling it along with Southwest Nebraska back before the turn of the century. As you well imagine, things were tough with no supplies or railroads in this area at that time. Frank got his quarter section and then bought up or claimed out the homestead people that moved out. Over a period of time he accumulated a massive holding of land and property at which time he spread out into Southwest Nebraska and kind of headquartered in Stratton, NE. He had a big old three or four story wooden hotel that used to sit right where the Commercial Bank now sits. He also had a General Store that had a lot of storage room, general supplies, a few groceries, merchandise, and mercantile stuff which was located in the southwest end of Stratton. Frank also owned the local grain elevator along with quite a bit of domestic and commercial property in and around the town of Stratton.

Physically, Frank was portly (he reminded you of W. C. Fields) he always wore a derby hat, had dark clothes, suspenders, and most of the time he didn't wear a shirt. He always had long underwear on summer & winter with no socks or laces in his shoes. That way he didn't have to put them on, he could slip them on like slippers. Frank hardly ever took a bath, he would wash his feet by wading in the gutter where the water was running down. His formal education, I understand, went up to maybe seventh grade. He could read enough that he committed to memory all the statutes of the State of NE and the complete unabridged works of William Shakespeare. The guy didn't seem to have much of a sense of humor, the only time he thought anything was funny was when he could quote by memory some of the passages of Shakespeare which were ribald and risque.

When Frank left his large ranch in Kansas, he brought the rather large herd of spotted horses (400 or 500) which had roamed free on his property with very little human contact.

Jimmie (James Richardson) was in an orphanage in Newton, Kansas. His mother had dumped him there and his father was somewhat of a no account. His sister and younger brother were also in the orphanage. Jimmie ran away at around nine years old by hopping freights. He ended up way down in the southwest desert, where he got into a refrigerator car and survived by sucking on ice until a brakeman found him and gave him a meal. He hopped another freight and ended up in pretty sad condition when he got off by the elevator in Stratton, NE. Frank Taunton saw him at the elevator and took him in after some discussion.

At that time, Frank had closed down the hotel - he didn't want to fool with it. So, he lived in that great big hotel all by himself, and you can imagine the place was a mess - rats, mice, spiders, etc. Jimmie was sort of the all round go for and amateur cook. He did odd jobs for room and board and started going to school in Stratton.

Jimmie and I just connected somehow right from the beginning. We became close friends and ran around doing kid stuff. Both of us liked to hunt and fish so we spent a lot of time down by the river. Frank had a few old plug horses around there and some rotten equipment (old McCellan saddles and that sort of thing.) We put enough rig together for the two of us to ride and play cowboy!

When Jimmie and I were about thirteen, Frank cut a deal with Hollywood for some spotted horses for the big stampedes, thundering herds, and all that sort of thing for their westerns. So Frank, being the entrepreneur and mercenary, decided that he would have a big horse drive to bring the horses into Stratton to be shipped to California. Well, this was the huge event of the decade down there at that time. Anyone that could have access to a horse and wanted to play cowboy was invited on this big roundup. I didn't have enough equipment or wasn't big enough to go on the entire drive. I don't think Jimmie did either. But anyway, we got in on the last three or four days, probably about thirty or forty miles. There were a lot of riders when we joined them down by the Kansas line. You needed more cowboys and hands when you got closer to town to try and get them in some holding pens and loading chutes.

On the last day a new character entered the picture. Gus Caves was a colorful character that ran around the countryside in an old covered wagon with some old car wheels on it so he had rubber tires and it was pulled by two old horses with an old saddle horse tied to the back. I don't know what he did for money, he was an older guy who dressed like a dirty Buffalo Bill. He had the shirt, whiskers, the tall hat and thought he was the last of the cowboys! The reason I bring him into the story is that 'ole Gus about whipped me to death! He was the victim of the deadly sin number one...PRIDE. On this last day of the roundup, he was just running his old saddle horse about literally to death. He kept running up and down the banks after strays, yiping and yowling, making his poor horse sweat and heave. Of all places for the horse to give out, he quit right by the stockyards where a crowd of people were gathered. Gus was whipping and spurring that poor old horse along with a lot of other showoff moves. At this point the horse went clear down with him which, of course, infuriated Gus who proceeded to take his bull whip to the poor animal. I was the closest, so I piled off my horse and jumped Gus. I would have only weighed about 125 pounds soaking wet at the time. This only made Gus madder so he kicked me back and turned the bull whip on me. I can still feel the pain - them things hurt! I was covering up with my arms when Jimmie came riding over and jumped off his horse onto 'ole Gus! Jimmie was a little bigger than me , but we both probably would have took quite a beating if my next door neighbor who also worked at the elevator hadn't stepped in and helped us subdue Gus. Then we worried that he would go to his wagon and get out his six guns; but my Granddaddy, Harv Donalds, was the marshall and Gus knew he would have killed him if he hurt us. Old Harv was tough!

But anyway, the big drive was over and the fun began for Jimmie and I. Most of the horses were shipped off to California right then, but Frank had a separate contract for broke horses. He offered us a deal we couldn't refuse, $4 a head for each horse we could ride by his hotel. We kept fifteen or twenty in the pens in town and had about thirty more in Frank's big pasture north of town. Between the two of us, we had gotten ahold of a big black horse (1600-1700lbs) we called Bill. We finally got a saddle that was strong enough to drag a horse with him. Jimmie rode this big black all the time and thought he was the knight of southwest Nebraska. We would get a rope on one of those broomtailed mustangs and teach him to lead real fast cause old Bill coulda dragged an elephant! We didn't really know what we were doing, but we were young and ambitious and didn't mind the pain. We got dragged around a lot when we roped the horses afoot in the rocks, cactus, and the mud. Once we got a rope on them, we would head out of town to the nearest plowed field or to the river where there was soft sand. By the time we got there they were pretty much broke to lead. At this point, we would get a sack over their head, put a saddle on them, and take turns getting on. Some bucked us off two or three times, some quit fast; the beauty of it was they pooped out fast in the soft dirt which also made landing much softer! At this point, we would get a bridle on them with a rope under the bridle so we could get them to giddyup, whoa, and turn right or left. This would take only a couple three days till we could get them so we could ride them past Frank's hotel! He would be sitting out in the lobby or on the bench when we rode by.

"Hi Frank, tally us up another one!"

He had a little tally book there and would tally us up one, so we were into him for four bucks then! Next day you would get on the same horse and he'd throw you just as fast as if you'd never ridden him before! But, anyway, we sent him down to the holding pen as a broke horse and Frank got extra money for them. We pulled that off for a summer or maybe two; I don't remember, but that was good money for a kid. Cash money was hard to come by! Of course, like all good things, that came to an end because word started filtering back to the agent by way of the poor 'ole cowboys that had to ride the horses in California.

Jimmie and I went through school and we used to ride a lot on the south side of the river where Jimmie's ranch is now. It was all weeds then clear up to a horses' belly, very primitive, with lots of jackrabbits! We'd ride down there and every once in awhile, we would jump a coyote and try to run him down horseback. We sure had a lot of fun! Jimmie used to ride up on the bluff behind where his house now sits; I used to think he was star struck.

He would say, "Red, as far as the eye can see, I'm gonna own this!"

I thought, sure you are Jim, and scratched it off as kid dreams. By gosh, he went off to war and sent home all his money (his allotment) to Frank to start paying down on the land out there and 'ole Frank took him up on it. Unfortunately, Frank died before Jim got back. We had a doctor at that time who was a legend in his own time, Doctor Brown, who was doctoring Frank. On his deathbed, Frank told Doc Brown, "I was wanting to sign that place over to that boy, Jimmie, and never got around to it. I want you to see to it that he gets that place cause I know I'm dying." and Doc Brown said, "I'll do it."

It was a good thing that Doc had the power he did around there because old Heiny tried to take the land; put it in the estate. If it hadn't been for Doc, he would have got it! After Jimmie got back and they were getting things squared away, Heiny said, "You don't get that land, it goes to the estate."

Doc Brown heard about it and went down to the judge and told him what Frank said ; and the judge ruled then and there the land belonged to Jim and that's how he got the place. He started out with a tent, an old John Deere, and Dynamite (his spotted stallion) with three or four mares. He used to have blackouts and fall off that tractor, he had an old disc, and I thought he was gonna get ran over and killed, but he spent quite a bit of time in the VA hospital and eventually he pulled her all together slowly building his herd. Jim's first Arabian stallion was U Bet in 1963. (Reg #24655) He traded several truckloads of hay for this stallion and that was the start of the Arabian-Pinto cross for him. Jim's next Arabian stallion was Regal Hanah (Reg #0152426). Regal had badly injured his left front leg as a foal and the vets wanted to put him down, but the Edwards offered him to Jim to improve his herd if possible. With lots of TLC, Jim was able to get Regal healthy, broken leg and all (there were bone chips in his knee). Regal continued to improve Hell's Bottom's herd until several years after Jim's death in 1984.

And on a personal note, Jim Richardson was the kind of man that would, and did, offer help and friendship to anyone that needed or wanted it. He was fast with a good story and warm smile. I was fortunate enough to know this man some, and he truly helped change my life for the better!

November
© 1996, 1997 Leonard Smith

It is cold here now, winter is firmly established, light snow dresses the trees and the summer lawn, no longer green, sleeps beneath its new, white blanket.

Juncos burst from the bush and swirl out across the yard, calling as they fly, gentle twitterings. The mints and vinca, in close to the house and still green and hopeful, droop under the snow on their leaves, contradictions.

It is still nearly a month till the solstice and the Druids practice incantations that will bring the watery sun back from the low, bleak southern sky. In the town, lights hang from poles, spanning the streets, many colors shining in garlands of plastic pine, clashing contradictions of greed and envy amid songs of a savior, still unfound.

Chatterings of children, unmuted and gleeful, resonate in the air, sounds of summer past and hearts free and careless,gone with the flowers. Off to school they go, bundled and chubby in snowsuits and boots, shiny eyes and dripping noses, our future.

On the marsh, the elegant cattails of summer are bent, dead sentinels waiting the return of blackbirds and coots. Ice rings the pond, its banks, vacant of fishermen, hold a lonely vigil beneath barren trees. Woodpeckers drum on hollow limbs, dinner on their minds.

It is November, the final week, days are short and the long, cold nights are filled with the icy song of the wind in the pines and the melancholy of owl hoots, interrupted by the spreading of ghostly wings, sharp eyes on a furtive mouse.

We stand with the Ancients and look to the sky. The nebulae and stars, glittering jewels in ebony, call to us with tales of mystery and wonder. The rising, full moon hangs above the horizon, its cratered, ancient face, radiant. Its light reaches downward, across the darkened earth; silvery fingers in the shadows touching the rabbit, the quail and you.