Chico's Challenge

by Jessie Haas

  “But he’s so well trained,” Mom said quickly, coming to Chico’s defense. “For reining, not cutting, but I thought that would be a good foundation.”

  “Maybe,” Misty said. “Anyway, my fault. If I wasn’t so crazy busy, I’d have helped you find the right horse. And now you’ve got this guy—and he’s such a perfect quarter horse, Sierra! I’d want to give him a good solid try if I were you. What about you?” She turned to Mom. “Are you thinking about another horse?”

  Mom shook her head. “Not ready yet. I got Scout when I was Sierra’s age. You don’t—” She cleared her throat. “You don’t replace a horse like that easily.”

  Sierra swallowed at the lump in her own throat, staring down at the corral. Chico stood, head down, facing the young cattle. The sun gleamed on his honey-colored coat. Dark dapples were starting to show as he shed his winter hair. As if he sensed her looking at him, he turned, and his lightning-streak blaze flashed at her like a friendly wave. Sierra lifted her fingers to wave back, but he was already looking at the heifers again.

  Misty was watching, too.

  “That horse has a lot of cow. What the heck! Let’s break the rules! I’ll train both of you, separately. Then I’ll put you together and we’ll see what we’ve got.”

  CHAPTER 5

  CHICO CLIMBED EAGERLY INTO MISTY’S stock trailer, lured by the thrilling scent of cattle. The ride was short, though. He’d barely started to eat from the hay net when the trailer slowed and stopped, and he stepped out into another new world.

  Same huge sky, mountain backdrop, sweep of high dry grassland. There was even a small log ranch house. But everything else was completely different.

  There was a big metal barn and a broad, covered arena nearby. Dust rose from a high-walled pen across the yard, and Chico heard cows moving. From another pen came a creaking sound, like the clothesline next door at Dean’s house, where the neighbor used to reel out her sheets on sunny mornings. Chico thought he heard a horse moving in that pen.

  A pickup truck drove out. Another drove in. Five more were parked in the sun. Everywhere, young people in big hats rode horses between the buildings, or clustered at the backs of trucks, talking. They all seemed calm, purposeful, cheerful.

  “Hi, there!” Misty rode toward them on a superior-looking palomino mare. The mare didn’t need to say Queen! She just flicked a slender ear at Chico, and he suddenly felt meek and polite.

  “Take Chico into the barn and saddle up,” Misty said to Sierra. “I’ve got a lesson to finish, and then we’ll see what we’ve got here.”

  Sierra led Chico into the barn. It was big and full of horses. She tied him in the aisle, and then went back to the family truck for brushes, bridle, and saddle. Sierra was nervous. Chico felt her hands shake as she groomed and saddled him.

  After a while, Dad said, “Looks like they’re done.” Sierra unhitched Chico and led him out. A sweating horse was led from the high-sided corral. Misty, on the palomino, waved.

  “Bring him over.” She dismounted, and Sierra put Chico’s reins in Misty’s hand. Chico tried to watch everything at once—Sierra, the new mare, Misty—while still listening for and smelling cattle. Where were they?

  Misty and Sierra talked—but who could listen to people with all this going on? Then Misty swung up onto his back, and Chico had to give her all his attention. Unlike Dean or Sierra, Misty seemed to sink down through the saddle and become part of him. That could be good or bad. Chico didn’t know which yet, only that without seeming to touch the reins or use her legs, she was moving him into the high-walled pen. She was good!

  The weathered plywood walls blocked his view. The footing was sandy, not too deep; good. Somewhere beyond the plywood, cattle lurked. Chico traveled around the pen with one ear tilted toward the wall, listening for them. Misty asked him to pick up the pace: jog, then lope; some circles, a few spins, and sliding stops. Chico didn’t hold out on her; something told him that wouldn’t be wise. He didn’t try any shortcuts, either.

  Misty reined him to a stop at one end of the arena, touched something on her waist, and her voice came from the speaker-boxes as well as from up there in the saddle. “All right, Joe.”

  A section of wall opened. Chico raised his head, watching intently as two young heifers trotted through, ears back and tails anxiously high. Yes! He’d known there were cattle! His cattle, the same lively, wiggly yearlings he’d helped bring in the other day. It would be fun to make them run—

  Misty’s soft, clever hand suddenly seemed made of iron, unbudgeable. It allowed him forward only slowly, only a little. Closer, closer—the young cattle started to move away from him and the iron hand froze, keeping him at exactly that distance. The heifers walked around the outside wall. Chico pranced beside them, level with the last cow’s hip. Once, twice around the pen—

  The hand relaxed. Chico spurted forward. The cattle swung around and went back the other way. Chico would have darted after them, but the hand prevented that.

  Misty said, “Joe, let the rest of them in.”

  The gate swung wide and fifteen more young cattle came through. They milled around, close to each other, watching everything suspiciously. When most of them finally stood still, Misty’s hand relented. Chico danced toward them, with low, purring snorts. Oh boy! This is going to be good!

  “You weren’t exaggerating,” Misty’s loudspeaker voice called out to Sierra. “This is getting a little Western!”

  Closer. Closer. Misty was aiming Chico straight toward the cows. But she expected him to go slow? To heck with that! Chico tucked his chin, the reins flapped loose for a second, and he bounced into the middle of the herd.

  With startled bawls, the cattle scattered in all directions. Which to chase? Chico hesitated, and Misty caught up with his mouth again—not harshly, but he felt her anger. Yikes! He’d just displeased a real queen.

  Dad didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Sierra saw him press his lips shut and take a deep breath, and her face went hot with embarrassment. Chico was being awful. She didn’t dare look up as Misty rode close.

  But if Misty was angry, she concealed it well. “Mr. Bonteen, that wasn’t cutting,” she said. “We never harass your cows like that. Sierra, hop up on Ladybird and let’s see what you can do.”

  Ladybird? The famous Ladybird? The one in Sierra’s Misty pictures? Ladybird was quarter horse royalty. More important, she was a world-class cutting horse; umpteen championships, a gazillion dollars in earnings … Oh sure, just climb on! What if Sierra did something wrong? What if—

  She got herself in the saddle somehow and looked half blindly toward Misty, who shouted, “Smile!”

  Sierra jumped and almost fell off Ladybird. Misty’s chuckle filled the ring.

  “Seriously. Relax. Ride in a circle down there and let me watch you.”

  Sierra obeyed. She felt stiff, and she knew that was wrong—but what could she do about it?

  “Slouch in the saddle,” Misty instructed. “Make your back soft and curved, just like a banana. Try to sit on the back pockets of your jeans.”

  I know that, Sierra thought. At least, I’ve read it …

  She let her spine soften, felt her way onto her back pockets.

  “Good!” Misty said. “Now mash down in the stirrups, point your toes out—good. That’s the cutter’s slouch. It’d win you last prize in an equitation class, but that’s what keeps you on a cutting horse.”

  She had Sierra jog, then lope.

  “Now, grab the horn with your right hand and push on it. Feel how that gets you deeper in the saddle? That’s what’ll really save your butt.”

  While Sierra practiced, Misty and Chico gathered the cows in a bunch. Chico danced up and down. Foam flecked his jaw and spattered his chest. He was acting like a raving maniac, not a well-mannered town boy. Somehow Misty kept him under control while seeming to ignore his bad behavior, but—

  “Now”—the microphone picked up Chico’s loud breathing as well as Misty’s voice—“ride L
adybird right into the bunch, at a walk. Wander through, pick a cow—any cow, as long as it’s near the edge—and just stare at it. And see what happens.”

  This was it! Holding her rein hand high, Sierra rode into the bunched cattle. It was like gliding a boat into deep water. The animals swirled and eddied around her, their backs just below the level of her knees. Ladybird moved so gently, the cows were barely disturbed. Sierra noticed the one with scars from an earlier coyote attack.

  “Pick one,” Misty reminded her.

  Sierra focused on Scar. Without any more telling than that, Ladybird also focused. With slight movements left, right, left, the mare guided the heifer toward the outside edge of the herd, and then beyond it—

  “Drop your hand!” Misty barked.

  Oh yeah. The rider chose, but the horse delivered. Once you committed to your cow and got it outside the herd, you were supposed to turn things over to the horse. Sierra rested her left hand on Ladybird’s neck and braced her right against the horn.

  Suddenly, the heifer realized she was out there alone, away from all the others. She ducked back toward them and wham! Ladybird spun into her path, crouching low. Sierra gasped. A cutting horse dropping on a cow felt like a fast ride on a down elevator.

  “Stay loose! Mash down in your stirrups—”

  The heifer dodged right, Ladybird followed, and Sierra’s liver and a few other internal organs slammed into her rib cage. She pushed back on the saddle horn, which snugged her down in the saddle. She felt like a passenger—better hang on tight, or she’d be an ex-passenger!

  With a moan, the heifer made a run for it. She wanted to get past the horse and dodge back into the group. Swift as a pouncing cat, Ladybird shadowed her and brought her to a halt. They went nose to nose, locked in a trancelike stare—

  “And quit,” Misty said. “Pick up the reins and give her a pat on the neck.”

  In a daze, Sierra obeyed. She’d just cut her first cow. She’d brought it to a standstill. She felt scattered, as if she were in three places at once. It was hard, trying to focus on her own body, on the horse beneath her, and on the cow. Misty made it look so easy and full of grace—

  Misty rode toward Dad, motioning Sierra to follow her. She got off Chico, and Sierra slid off Ladybird.

  “Okay,” Misty said. “Here’s what ought to happen. Sierra learns on a horse that’s already good at competition cutting. Chico gets started right by a good trainer. In a couple of years, you two get together and burn up the youth circuit, because you’ve both got buckets of talent.”

  A couple of years? Sierra thought. She looked at the ground.

  “The thing is,” Misty went on, “is that Chico’s cow crazy, and he’s learned to ignore a rider. But he’s the horse you have, and he probably fell into your lap for a reason. So leave him here with me for a few weeks. I’ll work him, you’ll do some work on Ladybird, and then we’ll see if he’ll partner up with you. If he does, he might make a cutting horse. But he’s got to learn that a rider is a partner, not an adversary. If he doesn’t—” Misty stopped herself. “But we’re going to teach him that, so I won’t finish that sentence. Unsaddle him and put him in the fourth stall on the right, Sierra. And I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

  CHAPTER 6

  CHICO’S NEW STALL AT MISTY’S PLACE HAD A paddock where he could graze and play nipping games with neighbors in other paddocks. But when the afternoon wind blew off the mountains, he thought he could smell the ranch. He missed it.

  In the morning, people fed the horses, cleaned the stalls, and pickup trucks started arriving. Later Joe, the barn manager, led Chico out, brushed and saddled him, and Misty appeared.

  Misty meant cattle; good. But she was awfully bossy. With mixed feelings, Chico followed her toward the small pen, the one that had squeaked. She opened the gate and led him inside.

  The pen was empty. Chico looked along the high wall. If this was like yesterday, one of those panels would open and cattle would come in. Only he didn’t sense cattle that close this time.

  Misty warmed him up: walk, jog, lope, circles. Backup. Lots of backup. Then she turned him to face the center of the pen, and she did something with the saddle horn. Chico felt her push lightly, and there was a tiny clicking sound. Out in the middle of the empty space, something moved.

  Chico threw up his head and stared. Danger? Run? It was some kind of bird, maybe, swooping across at chest level … no, it looked more like laundry being reeled out on a clothesline, only much faster.

  Abruptly, it stopped.

  Chico tested the air with flared nostrils. It wasn’t alive, he decided, in spite of the way it moved. It was laundry—cloth, anyway—and it had been outdoors a long time. It didn’t have the soapy wet smell he associated with laundry, and there was only one piece, light colored, with a dark shape on it that looked like a cow’s head—

  It snapped back in the other direction.

  And into the middle again.

  And back again.

  Chico put his head down with a sigh and sniffed the ground, hoping for the scent of cattle. But there had been no cows here lately, only horses. His ears tipped out to the sides.

  “Am I boring you, kid?” Misty said. “Let’s fix that.”

  She touched the horn again. Chico heard the click, and with a thin clothesline squeak, the cloth snapped into motion. Misty clapped her legs against his sides. He leaped forward, following the moving laundry.

  “Good,” Misty said.

  Good? She wanted him to chase it? He thundered after the small cloth, easily catching up.

  Suddenly, the laundry stopped. So did Chico; not because he wanted to, but because of the way Misty sat in the saddle. It wasn’t the way Dean had stopped him. Her hand on the reins pulled back, not up, and Chico’s head stayed low, which Dean would not have liked.

  Dean would want a rollback now, a swift turn on the haunches. Anticipating, Chico tried that, felt a firm leg holding him still—and then the laundry took off again, back across the pen, and Misty spun him after it.

  Left. Stop.

  Right. Stop.

  After a few repetitions, it started to feel like a game.

  More repetitions. It wasn’t a very good game. Chico was supposed to pounce after the laundry, race in a line parallel to it, never getting close; stop when it stopped, and wait for its next move. He never got to win, to go up to the laundry and pull it off the line. He’d done that once, when Dean’s fence broke and all the horses got loose in the neighborhood. He had pulled several pieces of cloth down from a line and trampled them with his front hooves, and somebody in a house screamed. It was fun. With a snatch at the bit, with his pointing ears, Chico suggested that game to Misty. She ignored him.

  Why weren’t people more creative? All right already! He had the concept. But Misty wanted more from him. Chico couldn’t figure out what, and he didn’t much care. This was as boring as circles.

  Misty stopped him and patted his neck. “Good enough for your first lesson.”

  First lesson? There was going to be more of this?

  FOR SIERRA, THE NEXT THREE WEEKS PASSED IN a blur: school, ride the bus to Misty’s place; change her clothes, say hi to Chico, saddle Ladybird and hurry to the arena for her lesson. She worked with flags mostly, learning to sit right and stay with Ladybird’s explosive bursts of speed.

  Helping Sierra saddle one afternoon at the end of the third week, Misty explained again why she used the flag so much. “It lets you practice a move over and over. A cow never makes the same move twice. And the Bird never gets bored with it, not like some horses. Girl’s got a work ethic!” She patted the mare’s neck, and Ladybird turned her head into the crook of Misty’s arm.

  Ladybird never does anything like that with me, Sierra thought. Riding a horse that loved somebody else was a good way to feel invisible.

  “How does Chico like the flag?” she asked. With school, she hadn’t been able to get there in time to watch any of his lessons.

  Misty shrug
ged. “He’s superfast and athletic, but he’s probably a little bored.”

  Sierra opened her mouth, and closed it. She was just a kid, a newbie, and this was Misty Lassiter. But Chico didn’t handle boredom well. That was why he’d soured as a reining horse. She had to say it. “He’s really interested in cows.”

  “Yes,” Misty said dryly. “And things still get real Western when he’s around them!”

  Sierra felt herself flush. She knew that “Western” wasn’t something a cutting horse should be around cows.

  “But forget Chico right now,” Misty added quickly. “This afternoon we’re simulating a cutting competition. Bring the Bird along.” She mounted another horse and rode toward the covered arena. Three other students waited outside. Sierra hadn’t gotten to know any of them yet, and she forgot the girls’ names the minute they were introduced, but she remembered the name of the tall boy, Randall.

  Misty backed her horse around to face the students.

  “Lecture time. Cutting is the only sport I know where you ask four of your biggest rivals to help you out in your performance, and where you ride your heart out for somebody you’re competing against. When I talk about things getting ‘Western,’ I don’t often mean it as a compliment. But this is Western in the best sense—the cowboy ethic of friendly, good sportsmanship. So, in this lesson, focus on being good help, as well as having a good run.”

  Sierra thought of her cutting posters, and the countless video clips she’d watched. Each showed one horse, one rider, one cow, dueling it out together. In reality you needed your team—a team of rivals.

  Misty said, “At a show, you’ll ask four people to be your help during your run. I’ve hired your help for you today. Sierra, you’re up first, Randall and I will be your turn-back riders, and the girls will be herd holders. Then we’ll rotate.” She nodded to Joe, who opened the door and let them into the arena.

  The herd holders rode down to the far end; Joe opened another gate to let the cattle in, and one of the herd holders settled them, riding back and forth in front of the cows to teach them to stay near the back wall. Then that same holder tested them, walking her horse through the herd from back to front and side to side. So much of cutting happened at a walk—again, not like the pictures.