by Paul Bagdon
“I wanted to challenge him. I need his respect. I’m never going to break him to saddle, so I gotta get him to respect me.”
Later that afternoon I climbed the fence, my rope in my right hand, coiled without a loop, and a thick flake of hay under my arm. I tossed the hay so that it landed about ten feet from the snubbing post. I knew the horse was hungry; there wasn’t a scrap of his morning hay left. I began my walking. The bay alternately eyed me and eyed the hay. At that point, my right hand gripping my rope was sweating—I didn’t know if he was going to eat or attack. The only weapon I had was my rope, but a well-placed blow with a coiled rope on a horse’s muzzle could change his mind in a hurry about what he wanted to do.
After what seemed like a century, he walked, stiff-legged, ears back, to the hay. I made three more circuits of the corral and then climbed up on the fence to sit next to Arm and watched the bay go after the fresh hay.
It was then we saw the two riders heading our way. Arm and I jumped down. These two fellows were scruffy and dirty—they looked like saddle tramps. They were both lean, with many days of unshaved beard. They drew rein in front of us but didn’t dismount.
“Quite a ’stang you got there,” one said to me. “We seen him real good from up on the hill beyond the corral. He’s pretty ’nough for a dozen mustangs, ’cept for that tanglefoot.”
“Something we can do for you boys?” I said.
“Well, truth is, we’re lookin’ for some ranch work. We can do most anything. We been workin’ cattle an’ horses lately.”
I looked more closely at them. Their horses were ribby and showed spur marks. “Horses an’ cattle, huh? Seems strange neither one of you has a rope on your saddle.”
The talker forced a laugh. “Damndest thing,” he said, “we tied up at a gin mill in the last town we passed an’ some fool stole our ropes.”
“But lef’ your rifles and bedrolls, eh?” Arm said, derision dripping from his voice.
“You listen here, Pancho—we…”
“Get off our property or we’ll blow holes in you,” I said. “We don’t need scum like you around.”
They looked at each other for a moment. Arm was off to my left. I’d dropped my rope at my feet when the two men rode up, leaving my right hand free. I didn’t need to look at my partner to know he was ready for whatever happened.
“Well, shit,” the talker said, turning his horse, “you sure ain’t civil here. Didn’t even offer a cup of coffee. I think what we’ll do is ride on.”
“That’s a fine idea,” I said.
“One can tell the quality of a man by the way he treats his horse,” Arm said, probably loud enough for the men to hear. Neither responded.
Later on that afternoon I half filled a bucket with crimped oats and humped over the fence to walk my circuit. The bay hustled to the far side of the fence, leaving his hay. I set the bucket down about five feet from the post and then walked around the periphery of the corral again. This time the stud was much faster in getting over to see what had been left for him. His ears were still back, but he didn’t offer to charge me again. I climbed over the fence, sat for a bit, watching him bury his muzzle in the bucket. If there’s one thing all horses love, it’s oats—particularly when the shell is broken—crimped—for them.
Armando was sitting at the kitchen table with two glasses and a bottle of tequila. I sat across from him and he poured two hefty shots into each glass. “He like the oats, no?” Arm said.
“Sure. An’ he didn’t pay as much attention to me when I was walkin’ around the corral.”
“Ees good.”
“Damn right it is. Tomorrow morning I’m going to rope him, snub him down, leave him maybe eight, ten feet, an’ get the hell outta there. Then I’ll continue feeding him for a few days.”
“He ain’ stupid,” Arm said. “He’ll soon learn who brings the groceries.”
“That’s what I’m countin’ on,” I said.
The sky was gray the next morning and there was the smell of snow in the air. From atop the fence I could see a farm wagon loaded with sacks of grain headed toward us, the two draft horses pulling it sweating into their harnesses because of the weight. I waved to the driver and he waved back. I formed a loop, made sure I had a good hold on the bucket of grain I carried, and jumped down to the inside of the corral. The bay was standing out from the far fence a few yards, which I thought was a good sign.
I set the bucket down maybe five feet from the snubbin’ post. I noticed the bucket from the day before had been kicked across the corral to where it lay, one side caved in. I began my walk. The horse watched me for a bit but was more interested in looking at the bucket. I glanced up. Arm sat on the top rail, a rope in hand.
After I’d made a couple of circuits the horse eased on over to the new bucket. I was maybe twenty feet away from him, on his left. I knew he was watching me—and I knew he wanted those oats.
Well, hell, I’m probably not going to get a better shot than this. ’Course if I miss, it’s a long haul to the fence, an’ then I gotta climb the sumbitch. But I’m not goin’ to miss.
I didn’t need to shake out my loop; it was already formed and ready. I faced the bay and took my throw. It was a perfect toss, I don’t mind sayin’. It slapped against his head and settled around his neck. I started haulin’ ass as soon as the loop left my hand, what was left of the coil in my hand. The horse stood there as if in shock for a moment—which gave me time to wind a half dozen turns of rope around the snubbing post. He backed up quickly, was stopped by the rope, and lit out toward me, ready to chew and stomp me into paste.
I’m not much at running and Western boots with high riding heels, didn’t add to my speed. But, I’ll tell you what. I burned up the dirt getting to the fence, grabbed hold, flung myself up, and sat on the rail to see what would happen.
The bay hit the end of the rope when I was about halfway to the fence—and the momentum— the force behind his charge—flipped him up into the air, all four feet going out from under him. He slammed to the ground on his back and was up immediately, rearing, squealing, bucking, carrying on as if ol’ Satan was nibbling on his ass. He tried a run in a different direction and it ended, ’course, in the same way the first had. He was already sweating and trembling with anger. He tried bucking and lunging again but the rope stopped him each time. He battled that rope for a good half hour until sweat dripped from his flanks, belly, and chest and he stood blowing, sucking air. I stayed where I was on the fence and rolled a smoke. Maybe forty-five minutes later, the stallion walked to the bucket and dropped his nose into it. I jumped down on the outside of the fence as did Arm. We grinned at each other.
“Step one,” I said.
For the next few days I did nothing with him except carry out a flake of hay, retrieve the empty bucket, replace it with a new one—crimped oats and molasses, thanks to our delivery from town—and walk back to the fence. He’d stopped booting the buckets after the first one for whatever reasons he had. That kinda surprised me.
I talked all the while I did my chores with him. Arm’s and mine were probably the first human voices the bay horse had ever heard, and I wanted him to get used to the sounds men make. Sometimes I sang: Buffalo Gals, When Johnny Comes Marchin’ Home, Oh, Susanna, and such like. Mostly, though, I talked. Arm spent some time in nonsense talk with our horse in both Spanish and English.
Every so often the stud would try the rope, but without the frenzied attack he’d shown the first time. I guess he grew weary of being jacked off his feet and bashed down to the ground.
Meanwhile, we had to find some mares good enough to match our stallion. We went into town to see if Tiny had heard anything and we put up some posters seeking good, solid, young but broke-to-handling mares. We had time and a bundle of money. We weren’t worrying about it.
Teresa and Blanca were working out beautifully. Breakfast, for instance consisted of a dozen or so eggs for us to split up, a pile of fried potatoes, and slabs of hog side meat. Lunch w
as just as good, but wider in scope. We even had soup one day. Supper they went all out for: steaks as big as saddle blankets, fluffy mashed spuds, fresh baked bread, and all the coffee we could drink. At supper they always put our bottle of tequila on the table, too. They kept the place spotless. The house always had that clean, fresh aroma of wood polish floating through it. Blanca drifted through the kitchen one morning to ask when we were next going to town.
“We were thinking ’bout goin’ in today,” I said. “Why?”
“There are tings we need. I make a leest, okay?”
“Sure—that’ll be fine.”
Teresa looked around the corner. “You take the peckhorse, too, no?”
Arm sighed. “How much things do you need?” he asked. “We both have saddlebags that’ll carry plenty.”
“Too small,” Blanca said.
“You need peckhorse,” Teresa added.
We saddled up and then put the rig on the packhorse. He was frisky and getting fat—he hadn’t been used for a while. He got a little too cute with Arm’s black and lost a mouthful of hair and hide. That calmed him down.
There was a wind that had a bite to it, and the temperature was low and dropping.
“Ain’t summer no more,” Arm said. He had the collar up on his heavy jacket, as did I.
We let our horses run a bit, holding them in so the pack animal could keep up. When we reined in after a mile or so, Arm said, “The stallion, he is coming good.”
“Yeah. He is. He’s still as wild as a hawk, but I can get next to him without him charging me or even laying his ears back.”
“Would you breed him now?”
“Might be a little dicey, but yeah, I would—if it’s the right mare an’ she’s in season. I’m sure our ol’ boy would climb right on, but whether or not he’d do any biting that’d hurt the mare, I dunno.”
“What means ‘in season’?”
“Same thing as ‘horsing’—or ‘horny’ for that matter. All ready for a stud.”
“I know ‘horny.’ This ‘season’ thing is silly.” He paused for a moment. “Maybe we need to tease him with a mare, see how he takes the scent, no?”
“Good idea.” I didn’t bother to tell my partner that was precisely what I intended to do.
We dropped off our packhorse at the mercantile, along with the list the ladies had prepared. I hadn’t bothered to look at it—what they needed was what they need. I asked the clerk to wrap four quarts of good whiskey real careful-like and include those with the supplies, too. As I was leaving, I stopped at the door. “Put one of those quarts at the top of a load,” I said. “We might give it a trial on the way home.”
The wind was whipping bits of ice that stung our faces like bees as we rode down to Tiny’s shop. He was hammering a fracture in a steel wheel rim as we tied our horses. His sale corral was full—he’d obviously made a sizable purchase lately. Arm and I stood at the fence, looking over the stock. Our eyes came to rest on the same horse: a buckskin mare that was the prettiest damned thing a man could ever see. Buckskins are eye-catchers anyway, but this gal was perfect. She stood square, looking about—curious, not frightened. Her coat was the color of homemade taffy and the dorsal line of black down her spine was straight and true. She had a good chest for a mare and her black mane and tail were long, without tangles. Her withers were prominent but not overly so, and her legs were picture-perfect, with gently sloping pasterns.
“Madre de Dios,” Arm said.
“Yeah—she’s somethin’.”
Tiny set aside his wheel rim and greeted us. “You saw the buckskin, I see. I was gonna send a kid out to fetch you to eyeball that pretty li’l girl.”
“Is she as good as she looks?” I asked.
“Better. Got the temperament of a new bride, reins great, backs away from fighting with the other mares. She’s a good ’un, boys.”
A one-horse carriage pulled up at the hitching rail. The driver—dressed like a banker or an undertaker—jumped down. He smacked Armando’s horse on the ass to make room for his horse and rig. Arm started forward, but I held him back. “Let it go,” I said. “The guy’s a dude. Lookit the shine on them boots. He’s never stepped in horseshit in his life.”
The man approached us. “You are the owner of the horses out there?” he asked Tiny.
“Yeah. I am. Folks call me Tiny.” The gent didn’t offer his hand, nor did Tiny. “These two boys are Jake…”
The dude waved away that introduction with a choppy hand motion. “I’ve come to talk to you, not your stablehands. I’m interested in that buckskin. I saw her when you brought her in last night—and I saw one of your boys run her down the street this morning. She covers ground.”
“You got a name?” Tiny asked.
“I’m Morgan Dansworth,” he said. “You’ve no doubt heard of me. I have the biggest cattle and running horse operation in West Texas. That mare would make a good addition. If she’s as fast as she looks, I’ll race her. If not, she looks like a real good brood mare.”
“I ain’t heard of you,” Tiny said.
“Me neither,” Arm said.
“Nor me,” I said.
Dansworth flushed slightly and his eyes squinted a bit. Like I said, he was dressed like a banker— fine suit, polished boots, fawn-colored gloves, a fur hat.
He cleared his throat, needlessly, I thought. “Be that as it may, I’ll purchase that mare.”
Tiny looked at Armando and me. I shook my head. “She ain’t for sale,” he said. “You’re a little too late.”
“The horse hasn’t been here a full day yet! Who bought…”
“These two stablehands,” Tiny said.
Dansworth forced a smile at us. “What’d you pay for the animal? I’ll double the amount—right now, in cash. Certainly there are other horses here that’re good enough for your purposes— whatever they may be.”
“Like Tiny said,” I said, “she ain’t for sale.”
“What we pay for her is no your business,” Arm added.
Dansworth’s face grew more red, and it wasn’t from the wind. “I’ll have that horse,” he said. “I’ll pay you three times what you—”
“She isn’t for sale,” I said, louder than I usually talk.
“ ’Less you got other business here, I’ll ask you to be on your way,” Tiny said.
“An’ you hit my horse again, you be swallowing your teeth, pendejo.”
“Like I said, I’ll have that horse—one way or another. I have better than a hundred men working for me. Many are very tough. Better you sell now and avoid trouble.”
“Trouble? Sheeee—it! You bring it right on!” Arm said. “We own the Busted Thumb Horse Ranch— even a fancy prancer like you could find us.”
Dansforth glared at Tiny for a long moment. “You’ll regret this,” he said.
“I don’ think so.”
The dude untied his horse, climbed onto his carriage, swung it around, and took off at a run. “You see the bit in that carriage horse’s mouth? One of them spade Mex things—sorry, Arm— that’ll rip hell outta a horse’s mouth,” Tiny said.
“Because I am Mexican does not mean I ruin animals,” Arm said.
“I know that.”
“Bueno.”
“What do you need for the mare?” I asked.
“Hundred and a half.”
Arm whistled.
“Sold,” I said. “Will you hold her for a day or so?” I dug into my pants and started counting out money. “I don’t have but eighty with me,” I said. “Arm, you got…”
“Cut the horseshit, boys. The mare is yours. Bring me the money in a day or so—I know you’re good for it.”
“Sí,” Arm said. “We are also good for some of them cold beers an’ maybe a taste of whiskey to warm the blood, no?”
“Fine idea,” Tiny said. “Let’s do it.”
We sat at a table in the saloon. Most of the cowhands had cleared out—either lost all their money to the professional gamblers, spent it on wh
ores and booze, or simply moved on.
“I know Dansworth—or I know of him, anyway,” Tiny said. “He’s got some fine racehorses, I’ll give him that. Not just hotbloods, either—all kinds.” He paused. “I heard that fancy Colt he carries was made by a gunsmith in Chicago— starting from scratch. Then, Danworth spent a few months with a ’ol boy named Jackson—a gunfighter—an’ learned to use the pistol. Word says he’s fast an’ deadly, dude or not.”
The bartender was familiar with our needs. He brought over a tray with six schooners of beer and three double-shots of whiskey.
“What else do you know?” I asked.
Tiny downed his whiskey.
“Well, his papa built up a hell of a operation durin’ the war, sellin’ beef to both the Yanks an’ the rebs. Made him real rich. He was a horseman— knew horses and always had prime stock around—and always lookin’ for more to buy. He up an’ croaked three, four years ago an’ his kid took over. That cowflop we just saw was the kid. Thing is, he’s got those hundred men an’ more, an’ he uses them like a army.”
My whiskey was raw, but the warmth of it going down felt good. “You think we got anything to worry about from him?”
“We step on that cucaracha, no?”
“Sure. But he ain’t the one you gotta worry about. It’s his men. From what I heard, he’s got a pack of deserters, crazies, an’ gunslingers ridin’ for him. He pays them good an’ they ain’t afraid to trade gunfire.”
“Neither are we,” I said.
“I know that. All I’m sayin’ is to keep your eyes open an’ watch that mare real close. By the way— how’s the stud comin’?”
“He’s doin good, considerin’ he was as wild as a damned mountain cat when we brought him in. I’ve got him snubbed an’ I can touch his muzzle.”
“I’d say don’t push him, Jake. Take your time.”
Arm laughed. “Jake, he’s as patient as a kid at Navidad.”
Tiny changed the subject. “How’re Blanca an’ Teresa doin’?”
“They’re great. God, the way they feed us. I swear to you, Tiny, it won’t be long before I’m as fat as Armando.”