"Have any trouble with Tar Baby?"

"No, oh, no. None whatever. Ready to go?"

Every morning as soon as I was in the saddle we had the same argument.
Would he go where and as fast as I desired, or would he run as fast and
as far as he pleased? Sore wrists and a strained disposition were the
price I paid for winning the battle. He just went wild if he could race
with another horse. Of course White Mountain put his foot down on such
racing, and since the rangers were such good sports their Chief never
learned that racing was part of the daily program!

One day, when some of the Washington officials were there, the Chief
borrowed Tar Baby to ride. He said it took him half a day to get him to
stay on the ground with the other horses. He came home fully determined
that I must trade my Christmas gift for a more sensible horse. Tears and
coaxing availed nothing, but I did win his consent to one more ride
before I gave him up.

Ranger West was going to ride the drift fence and I started out with
him. Tar Baby was a handful that day, and I was having all I could do to
control him. We passed a bunch of tourists having lunch out of paper
sacks, and one of the men had a wonderful idea. He said something to the
others, and while they giggled he blew one of the bags full of air and
exploded it right under my horse. Of course Tar Baby bolted, and even as
he ran away I admired his ability to keep ahead of Ranger West, who was
running full tilt after us. It was five minutes before I could get the
bit out of his teeth and bring the spade device into play. I had to
choke him into submission.