The Busted Thumb Horse Ranch

by Paul Bagdon

  “You gon’ ride him?”

  “I’ll get him to accept a blanket an’ saddle an’ a bit in his mouth, but riding him seems like it’d bust down that tanglefoot even worse.”

  Armando nodded. “After we get him bred to some good mares, it’ll be a long ’leven months to see what comes from the womb. We ain’t good at waitin’, Jake.”

  “Yeah. But no horse ranch can run with one stud. We gotta buy or find another two or so after the one we calm is safe to leave alone.”

  We watched the herd for the rest of the day.

  They moved about in the dish of land, avoiding Sooty’s corpse but otherwise paying it no attention. Yearlings ran and played, striking at enemies only they could see, snorting, ramming around for the sheer hell of it. It was good to watch—Arm and I both reveled in it, watching these big creatures wild and free in nature.

  The bay stallion took his position, dropping his head every so often to graze or drink, but as vigilant as an ea gle seeking prey.

  “A drink would be nice, no?” Arm said.

  “It just so happens,” I said, “I was thinking the same thing. An’ I can fix us up in short order.” I walked back down the rise to our horses. I had a metal flask I’d picked up in the mercantile tucked in among my winter long johns an’ extra socks. It didn’t hold much more than a pint, but it was better’n nothing.”

  We spent the balance of the day sipping and watching the horses. We made camp shortly before dark, but didn’t dare to start a fire. A horse’s vision is none too good, his sense of smell is excellent, and smoke would drive them off. We ate jerky and each had a can of peaches and turned in. Sleep came quickly and easily to me. The more I saw that blood bay in my mind, the better he looked.

  The herd had moved down the valley during the night, which we’d pretty much expected them to do. They’d cleared the buffalo grass, grazing it to the dirt, and had to continue on to find food.

  We left our packer on a long rope tied off to a rock where the mustangs had been the day before. He could scruff at what was left of the grass and he could reach the water. Then, we lit out after the herd.

  We didn’t attempt to be quiet about it. That stud would hear and smell us pretty much no matter what we did, since the breeze was now blowing from our backs. After a half day we came upon them. The stud was keeping the mares in a tighter group and he nipped at the colts that decided they’d rather play than jog along at mama’s side. Each youngster who bought himself a nip shrieked in pain and got back to the herd in a hurry. The boss hoss was out ahead a short distance in front of the mares, sweeping back and forth, stopping only to stick his muzzle into the air to see what news the wind would bring.

  “Lookit the set of his ears,” Arm said. “He’s good an’ mad. He don’ like this bein’ chased shit.”

  “I noticed. He’s gonna be hard to take.”

  “We’d bes’ pick up sticks or something to whack the sumbitch when he comes chargin’. Shaking reins at him won’t make no difference.”

  “Sticks probably won’t, either, but you’re right. Damn. We shoulda brought heavy quirts. A good cut across the nostrils will stop any horse.”

  “Mos’ horses,” Armando corrected.

  We followed behind the herd for a couple of hours. They weren’t moving fast but they were moving steadily. The stud let them stop at a water hole and drink, but shagged them out a few minutes later. There were a couple of young desert pines near the water; we each selected a whippy branch, stripped it, and followed the herd.

  “I’m gettin’ some tired of eatin’ dust,” Arm said early that afternoon.

  “Me, too,” I said, “but I figured we’d make our move on the bay tomorrow.”

  “Why? It don’ make no sense, Jake. They’ll be fresh in the morning. Why not get a handle on that bay horse now an’ tie him good for the night?”

  I thought that over. Both Arm and I were fair-to-average ropers—we’d worked cattle when we couldn’t find anything we could steal. Our plan was a simple one. We’d handle the horse the way a rank bull is handled. We’d each get ropes around his neck and allow him forty feet on either side. When he charged one of us—and he would charge—the other would haul him back. Like most plans it sounded a whole lot easier than it turned out to be.

  We made our move, each of us riding up one side of the group of mares, loops ready. The bay stopped to face us, ears laid back tight to his skull, his lips curled back over his teeth.

  The toughest part would be gettin’ our ropes on him. Until we had him between he was free to tear us and our horses into pieces. I was on the right side of the herd and the stallion, Arm on the left. We both began drifting toward the bay. He was sharp enough to see what was coming and decided to fight right there rather than to attempt to run. He reared, front hooves flailing, snorting angrily.

  I caught Arm’s eye and nodded. We both headed for our quarry at a gallop, swinging wide loops.

  The stallion didn’t seem to know which of us to fight. After a moment he made his decision and charged me, running toward my galloping horse. I swung in a skidding turn and made my throw when the bay was ten feet or so from me. My roped bounced off his side and dropped to the ground. Armando did better. He dropped a loop over the stud’s head and cranked his horseback the way he’d come to break the stallion’s charge. He was a little late. My horse lost a good patch of coat and flesh from his hindquarter.

  The stud hit the end of Arm’s rope and was flipped onto his back and side, but was on his feet in the smallest part of a second. I’d been scrambling to hold my horse steady and get my rope back. I came up from behind the bay, who was concentrating on Armando, and made my second throw. This time I snared him and cut sharply back, dragging him out of his charge at Arm.

  Both Arm and I hustled to the ends of our ropes. It may have been a mistake but we’d both tied down what’s called “hard an’ fast”—meaning we’d secured the ends of our ropes to our saddle horns. In ranch work a cowhand’ll take a couple of wraps around his saddle horn, but wants the rope to be free in case of some major blowup.

  The stud was confused and madder than a rogue bull being threatened. We’d put a choking cloud of dust and grit in the air during our battle and my eyes were watering and at times I could barely see to the end of my rope.

  We wanted to avoid the stud going down. If he did he could roll against the ropes and tangle up a leg or two, ending up with at least one broken leg. We fought back and forth for what seemed like forever but was actually maybe an hour or so. All three horses were dripping sweat, and so were Arm and I. All of us were coughing from the cloud we’d raised.

  When I was dragging the stud my way, Arm got a loop around his rear feet and pulled back against me and my horse, leaving us with a crazed stallion stretched out between a pair of fatigued men and horses. It was a real good throw by Arm. He’d been a heeler on a couple of ranches and always carried two ropes. A heeler is the guy who gets a loop on the back legs of a calf in conjunction with a header, who ropes the front end, so that the calf can be branded right where he’s stretched between the two ropers.

  Trussing that bay horse up so he couldn’t go anywhere was a job and a half. Our horses stood, holding the ropes tight, but that stud’s head was mostly free and he snapped at us so violently that when his teeth crashed together, they sounding like a sprung bear trap. Arm got a short length of rope over the animal’s snout and took a few wraps before tying it, eliminating the biting problem. Nevertheless the horse used his head and muzzle as a battering ram. A direct hit would break bones and shatter ribs.

  I got rope around his front legs, secured it, and tied it off against the rope holding his rear legs together. We checked all the knots and ropes carefully—we didn’t want to have to battle this ol’ boy again. When we were positive he could barely move, we went to our horses and freed the ropes from the saddle horns.

  The mares, who’d stood around in a cluster, wide-eyed, watching the battle, seemed to lose interest once thei
r leader was down. They grazed on what little grass there was, shagging flies with their tails, just as they normally would. The youngsters continued their games as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired. Every so often the stallion would let go a loud and angry whinny and the heads of the others would turn to him. When nothing else happened, they turned away once again.

  Arm and I rode back to the water hole we’d crossed earlier and let our horses drink. Neither of us had used the branches we cut, which we’d tucked into our rifle scabbards along with our 30.30s. We threw the branches away, drank, picked up some dry limbs, refilled our canteens, and rode back to the herd. We set up a quick camp and started a fire. The mares wouldn’t like the smoke, but they wouldn’t go anywhere without their leader. Me an’ Arm said we’d be damned if we would go without coffee after a day like we’d had. I emptied what was left in my flask into our cups. There wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. We ate jerky, which was also better than nothing, but not by much.

  “We gonna have to wrestle with that sumbitch all over again mañana,” Arm said. “He’s a tough boy, okay. Couple times I was worried he would pull my horse off his feet.”

  “We don’t have real far to take him,” I said.

  “An’ I suspect that he’s smart enough to settle down when he sees he can’t win this round. Workin’ him in the corral ain’t goin’ to be a Sunday school picnic, though.”

  “Ees a good thing we planted the snubbing pole damn near to hell.”

  “Yep. He might bust me up, but he’s not about to move that pole. An’ all I gotta do is get to where I can handle and lead him—it’s not like I’m breaking a saddle horse. I wouldn’t ride him even if I could—not with that foot of his. The weight of a rider would throw him off balance.”

  Armando’s response was a long, wet snore.

  We fought with that beast most of the next morning. The weather had cooled that night and there was a stiff and chilly breeze blowing, raising yet more of a cloud of soil and sand around us as we tried to move the stud forward.

  About midafternoon, the bay discovered that if he took steps in the direction we wanted him to go, the tension of the ropes around his neck would be lessened. He was still shaking his head, snorting, and slamming those teeth together— but he was walking between our two horses. The mares, somewhat confused, followed us, I guess because most of them had followed the bay all their lives and he was moving now, so it was natural for them to plod along after him.

  There were a few mares that didn’t look bad, but there didn’t seem to be a good chest or straight leg and sloped pastern among them. Many had scars from fights and more than a few were missing ears. The scars stood out against their coats like thick red worms, mostly near their withers and neck. I looked them over for a good long time before I shouted over to Arm, “I can’t see feedin’ this herd. There ain’t anything here we’d breed to.”

  “Ees true,” Arm yelled back to me, “but if we try to run them off now the stud, he go crazy—an’ the mares, too.”

  “We can break them up and run them after we get the bay in the corral.”

  “Might be a couple worth keepin’.”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  We covered ground in spite of the slow pace. We picked up our packer and I tied him off on my saddle horn. He’d apparently enjoyed his vacation—all the grass was eaten right down to the dirt and he looked good—might even have put on a few pounds, given the fact that he had no work to do.

  Every now an’ again, the stallion would try to make a break, but Arm and I had gotten awful handy at hauling him in between us. For fifteen minutes after he’d attempted escape, the bay would whinny and rear and strike, even do some bucking, much like a kid having a tantrum.

  There was a full moon that night, and the stars seemed close enough to the ground to be lanterns.

  “Arm,” I called, “what say we keep on rollin’? We’ll make the ranch by midmorning tomorrow.”

  “Bueno. You see, each step brings me closer to the tequila in the cabinet.”

  I laughed. “I could use a snort or two my ownself.”

  My estimate of midmorning was overly optimistic, but we pulled in to our ranch well before dark.

  We’d built the corral we were going to use to get a handle on stallions extra stout, and five feet taller than the other corrals. There was a wide, nicely reinforced gate we’d latched wide-open, which was a good move on our part. It could have been real tough getting close enough to unlatch the gate with the stud acting up.

  Armando banged his heels against his horse’s sides and the black leaped forward, putting lots of pressure on the bay. I dropped my rope, jumped down from my saddle, and ran to the gate. I swung it closed just as Arm galloped out. The stallion stood in the corral near the snubbing post with a pair of forty-foot ropes still around his neck. He looked more confused than anything else. I’d expected a blowup when he figured out that he was boxed in by fences too high to jump, and would start raising general hell, trying to kick his way out of the enclosure. Instead, he merely stood there, looking around. I suppose he was as tired as we and our horses were.

  The mares, too, were confused. They whinnied out to the bay, and when he responded they approached the corral. There were as skittish as deer and didn’t dare come too close, but hearing their boss seemed to comfort them some. They ran out in a group about a hundred yards into a pasture and began to graze.

  We took our horses into the barn and spent some time rubbing them down, checking and cleaning their hooves, and putting a ration of molasses-rich crimped oats in front of them in their stalls, along with buckets of fresh water. They’d done fine work for us and they deserved a little extra time. Anyway, it’s a code in the West that a man takes care of his critters before he takes care of himself.

  There was a large meat pie on our little kitchen table, covered with a couple of layers of cheesecloth to keep the flies away.

  “Them women—I love them,” Armando said, tossing the cheesecloth aside, and picking up one of the big wooden spoons placed next to the pie. I did the same. We ate the entire thing in a matter of minutes.

  “How about we hire those two to cook and kinda clean up around here? Neither one of us are much good at that stuff.”

  “Bueno. We pay them well, no?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Armando pushed his chair back and headed for the tequila cabinet. He took out a quart, yanked the cork with his teeth, and said, “Les’ go out an’ see what the bay horse is doing.” He took a monumental swig of the booze, belched, and handed the bottle to me.

  “We need some glasses. We’re like a pair of stumblebums sucking whiskey out of bottles,” I said, after taking a long hit.

  “Blanca y Teresa will get some, we ask them to. Me—I don’ need no glass.”

  “I’ll set up an account at the mercantile an’ they can get whatever they want,” I said. “Come to think of it, we don’t have any plates or such— spoons and knives an’ forks.”

  “If you gettin’ glasses, you might as well get the whole wagonload a that horseshit, no?”

  Armando wasn’t big on the social niceties. His sheath knife was two utensils rolled into one piece—knife and fork. He didn’t need a spoon— soup or stew he simply drank from the bowl.

  We stopped at the barn and picked up a flake of hay. When we got to the corral I tossed the hay over the top and then Arm and I climbed to the top rail. The stallion was lathered and sweat dripped from his chest and sides. He’d obviously been running—and running hard. He ignored the hay. I noticed he’d drunk about half of the water in the trough at one corner of the corral. He stood and glared at us, and it seemed that his glare could melt steel.

  The mares had moved a bit farther away but we could still see them dotting the pasture. When the bay whinnied they no longer answered.

  The bay lurched into a run again, moving as fast as his tanglefoot allowed him to, following the fence line around and around again. The two rope
s flailed behind him, like snakes chasing him in his headlong dash. When he came by us we could hear the deep bellows-like sound of a horse that’s been run too long.

  He made another half circuit of the corral, stopped, and then ran directly at us. “I hope the fence is as stout as we think,” Arm said, “ ’cause he ain’t gonna stop.”

  We pulled our legs to the outside. The horse bashed into the fence with his chest, his head turned aside, teeth clattering together. He was squealing madly, crazily, forelegs now attacking the air next to him. He’d lost control of his urine in his wrath and a heavy, pungent reek of ammonia rose up around him. The fence held. I reached out and got my hand under one of the loops around his neck and when he backed off, I brought the rope in.

  “Maybe we’d best let him be for a couple of days,” I said, “until he settles a little.”

  He rushed us again, flailing hell out of the fence just below us with his front hooves, doing his best to get his teeth into us.

  “Sí. He will tire of this running an’ biting shit before long.”

  We each took another swig of tequila.

  “You notice how the horse, he tracks? Back hoof striking where front one was?”

  “Yeah, I did notice. An’ did you see how he carried his head at the gallop? He’s one proud sumbitch.”

  “Sí. Is true. But, my pardner…” Arm stopped midthought and lifted the bottle to his mouth.

  “What? What’s the problem?”

  Arm thought for a long moment. “Look,” he said, and his words were quick and tumbled over one another. “Theese goddamn horse, he weel kill you, Jake. You think you can ride or break any animal an’ you’re way wrong.”

  “Horseshit. I know when to let go, Arm. Like that hellfire bitch I rode down in—where? Yuma? She wanted to kill me an’ I rode her ’til she couldn’t stand.”

  “I made money on that ride, Jake.”

  “For or against?”