December 13, 1934: Retired actor and Newhall resident William S. Hart recites his original poem, "Pinto Ben," on Rudy Vallee's "Fleischmann Hour" radio show on NBC, sponsored by Fleischmann Yeast.

"Pinto Ben" is the story of a pony that gives up his own life to save his master from cattle that are set to stampeding by some foolhardy city men.

The poem was published in the 1919 book, "Pinto Ben — and other stories" by William S. Hart and his sister, Mary Hart. The 1919 book version appears below. It was also published as sheet music, and Hart recited an abbreviated version on a Victor record in 1928.

Also appearing with Hart in this episode of Vallee's radio show were Cole Porter, Henry Fonda, Beatrice Lillie and June Knight. Hart would make another appearance three years later, in November 1937. In personal correspondence with Vallee, Hart said he was a regular weekly listener.

Illustration by Robert Lynn Lambdin in Bill and Mary Hart's 1919 book, "Pinto Ben — and other stories." Lambdin (1886-1981) was primarily a magazine and calendar illustrator in the 1920s and 1930s.

PINTO BEN
By William S. Hart
From the 1919 book
"Pinto Ben — and other stories"
by William S. Hart and Mary Hart

Eastern folks called it a tragedy story,
An' tragedy — it rides herd on me;
Fer I know'd Ben, that cow-pony,
An' that pink-nosed Pinto know'd me.

The beef round-up cut out a thousand head,
The craziest critters on the range,
Five years old an' beef to the hoofs,
To trail to Billings an' load on trains.

That end didn't pan hard,
We had the ponies an' the men —
Ever hear of the Chinook outfits?
That's us; Big Dry — N Bar N.

An' Ben, Ben wus boss of 'em all;
So mild an' gentle a thing;
He could beat any outlaw hellin',
Yet the pride of the wrangler's string.

Your loop might foul on a pass,
You might have brush in the way;
But Ben would always sabe
If they run on the rope all day.

Why Bill, — our boss trail foreman,
Segundo Jim, or any o' the men,
Couldn't drift in cattle quicker,
Or read a road-brand better than Ben,

Ben an' me roped fer money once'd;
The saddle-horn snapped with the cast,
But Ben weavered in, missin' every plunge,
Till to the saddle-tree I got fast.

Then he stood meek, his sides still a-heavin',
Him, apologizin' like, fer the break —
Didn't savey watches, he could only look —
With them eyes as big as a plate.

Illustration by Robert Lynn Lambdin. See above.

But I wus huggin' him in a minute,
We'd won out — tied in twenty-eight —
An' fer a little buckin' an' swellin' o' chests, —
Say son — you should seen us pullin' our freight.

You can make talk o' your solid colors;
Your bays, an' blacks — or, gray —
But a fourteen-hand Pinto fer mine,
An' Ben wus a King — work or play.

The range wus way back, a rim o' the sky;
The train a-belchin' blue smoke;
Ahead, a city o' bricks, stickin' high; —
Where we would be sure to go broke.

Segundo Jim a-worryin' a heap,
Me feelin' like a loosened cinch;
An' Ben just tremblin' with fear,
Wus what wus sent with the bunch.

We wus in a caboose an' had nose-paint,
An' could buck up now an' then;
But that freight car warn't no sun-up corral,
An' it sure wus hard on Ben.

I told Ben folks get used to them cities,
But there wusn't no home-feelin' in us pards;
Milk river seemed eight million miles
From them there Chicago stock yards.

A thousand cattle wus signed fer,
Us not knowin' where they wus to go —
Would Eastern men think less o' dollars,
If they'd watched them cattle grow?

We couldn't savey their ways, —
Didn't try to then, — by an' by,
'Long comes a clerk-feller, sayin',
"You're done — when they're in the big pen."

When I go back to that minute,
The world seems to stand right still:
We wus to drive through a chute to the biggest pen
An' the cattle wus commencin' to mill:

Horns an' hoofs wus beatin' the air,
As they bellowed their fear-ragin' cries;
While out o' that bedlam, an' cloud o' dust,
Glared them frightened an' blood-shot eyes.

Jim and me's cussed many times since,
Why didn't we tear out their throats?
They didn't know range-bred cattle,
From a herd o' mountain goats.

A locoed coyote called a man,
Trailed by a second an' third,
Commenced shoutin' an' wavin' their arms,
Right at the back o' the herd.

Crack! went Jim's forty-five from the bank,
An' I yanked my smoke-machine, —
The whole thousand head wus comin' like hell,
Straight into that chute ravine!

If I could only make a talk,
Of things as happened right then,
I could tell o' the greatest thing livin':
Just a simple cow-pony, Ben.

As I touched the saddle, he was at 'em
As though just a prairie prank —
No spur a-tearin' his belly,
Or quirt a-burnin' his flank.

He dashed an' whirled at that maddened herd,
While I fanned the old gun — but no use —
On they come crashin' — a-rippin' up earth,
Blind fury an' hell all turned loose.

When I swung his head, he know'd,
An' lengthened into that lightnin' stride,
We could only live while out in the lead,
Four lengths! — it wus sure our death ride.

God! What's that out in front?
A gate, — iron bound — rearin' high!
A screamin' neigh — an' Ben flattened —
An' I know'd he'd make it or die.

Them lean muscles tightened, an' he cleared it clean,
The scorch of them breaths wus behind,
Pardners, I'd cash in my checks 'thout a new deal,
If another look from Ben I could find.

When that sea o' cattle stopped comin',
They wus piled up a mountain high;
I sat in their blood, Ben's head in my lap,
A-listenin' to his last sigh.

He wus an ace, never whimpered once'd,
Though he know'd he wus goin' to fail
To go back to them Plains where men live an' breathe,
An' that we must soon hit the back trail.

Then the greatest light I ever see'd,
Come into that Pinto' s eyes;
He pulled up them poor broken laigs,
An' tried to stand, — an' died.

Reckon some o' that blood come out o' my heart,
This heart that Ben had won,
So long, Ben — all in a day's work!
So long — you Son of a Gun.