by Jessie Haas
Then they fell silent. Chico dozed, slouching on one hip. He still listened, though. Any movement among the cattle brought his ears drowsily forward. Once in a while, he turned to look at the house, but there was no movement there. Nothing at—
There! His head shot up, ears pointing toward a new sound. What was it? The queen stopped chewing. The cattle stirred. Out beyond them something moved. A wild-dog smell, a dried-blood smell, drifted on the night air.
The cattle began to bunch together, calves stumbling up from sleep, mothers nudging them, pushing them, crowding them toward the trees.
Near the horse fence, a calf let out a startled blat, and a cow charged into a cluster of gray shapes. A sharp yip—they scattered, then regrouped. The calf staggered toward the horse corral fence. The cow started after it with a low moan, but the shapes were closer. They were on it, pulling it down—
No! No dog-animal had any right to come near territory Chico controlled. He charged. So did the mother cow. The coyotes slipped away. Ignoring Chico, so close on the other side of the fence, the cow lowered her head and gave her calf a worried shove, urging it to move.
The calf tumbled, slithering under the corral fence. On Chico’s side, it struggled to rise. Farther along the fence line, a gray shadow slipped under the bottom rail, another, a third.
Chico froze. Not in fear. He would love nothing more than to charge among them with hooves flying, jaws wide-open. He’d get at least one, he knew that.
And the other coyotes would circle—some were behind him even now—and they’d get the calf while he fought them.
It was small. Young.
His!
The calf started to stagger toward the coyotes, in baby stupidity or lack of control. It was very new to the world, and it was hurt. Chico smelled blood on it.
Stop! He closed his teeth gently on its neck. The calf stumbled to its knees, and Chico pushed it all the way down. With one deliberate, careful step, he straddled the calf, snaking his head at the circling shadows. You think so, dogs? Try it!
Beyond the fence, the mother cow bellowed. The queen snorted in disgust. She did not appreciate any of this. Chico should be clearing those coyotes out, not just standing there. She trotted by, delivering him a sharp nip in passing, and charged into the cattle pack. They melted away from her, reformed behind, and the mother cow roared. Down by the creek, the rest of the herd answered, and in the house a light came on. In a moment, someone was on the porch. Then running footsteps, bobbing flashlight; Dad, carrying a long stick. He stopped at the fence, pointed the stick toward the sky—
BLAM! The sound was sharp, heavy, unbelievably loud. The queen raced around the perimeter of the corral, snorting. Everything in Chico wanted to do the same. But he held himself still over the calf.
The coyotes vanished. He heard their racing paws for a second. Then all sound was drowned by the mother cow’s bawl.
The horse corral was suddenly flooded with light. Dad came back to the fence. Mom and the girls ran from the house.
“What happened?”
“What was it?”
“Strange,” Dad said. “I’ve never known coyotes to bother a horse before. They were all around—Chico, here.” He sounded like he could hardly bring himself to say Chico’s name.
Sierra scrambled over the rails and came running. “Chico, it’s me! Are you okay—oh!” She stopped short. “Dad,” she called after a moment. “Come here.”
Dad opened the gate and came in. It was the first time Chico had ever seen him in the corral.
“Look under Chico,” Sierra said. Dad bent, pointing his flashlight. “It’s bleeding,” Sierra said. “It’s hurt.”
“Okay, that’s it!” Dad sounded so furious, Chico wanted to move away. But there were too many people around him. Mom was coming now, too. Where could he put his feet so he didn’t hurt the calf, or any of them?
“End of discussion!” Dad said. “I want this animal off this ranch!”
Mom took the flashlight from him. She put a hand on Chico’s neck and bent, shining light on the calf.
“Darling?” she said after a moment. “Take a closer look. Those are coyote bites.”
Dad bent and stared where she was pointing. Then he half turned, looking off into the darkness; turned back and looked at Chico and the calf. He opened his mouth. He closed it again.
“Well,” he said finally. “Well. He was protecting it, wasn’t he?”
Mom nodded.
“I fired a shot from twenty feet away, and this horse didn’t move. I’ll—I’m—I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, ‘Thank you’?” Mom said.
“Yeah, that one I figured out.” Dad held out his hand toward Chico, palm up. Chico sniffed it. A hard hand, made raspy from work. Awkwardly, gently, the hand stroked Chico’s nose.
“Misjudged you, buddy,” Dad said. “Admittedly, you’ve given me plenty of cause, but not this time … thanks.”
Gently, Mom slid the calf out from between Chico’s legs. “This baby needs stitches,” she said.
When the calf was out from under him, Chico shook himself, like he would after a nice roll in the dirt. A moment later, Sierra had her arms around his neck.
“Chico, you’re amazing!”
Chico nibbled gently at her bathrobe tie. She was happy again. Probably some kind of pattern here …
WHILE MOM STITCHED THE CALF UP, AND ADDIE fed both horses an entire bag of carrots, Sierra stood leaning against Chico’s shoulder. His warmth came through her pajamas. He ate carrots happily, but a large part of his attention seemed to be out beyond the fences. On the cows? Maybe the coyotes?
“Back to bed,” Mom said finally, shooing them all toward the house.
Sierra went to her room, but sleep was impossible. She wrapped her quilt around herself and stared out her bedroom window. She could see Chico in the horse corral, moonlight gleaming butter-yellow on his back. He stood close to the mare, but he looked out toward the calf pasture.
He’s a cow horse all right, she thought.
This afternoon, at Misty’s, he’d scattered cattle like a gleeful Labrador puppy. That was bad. But tonight, he’d stood over a tiny calf to protect it. That showed judgment. It showed courage. It showed amazing self-control. At supper, Mom had talked about finding him another home, but a horse like Chico shouldn’t be a backyard pet or be ridden in slow safe circles in a show ring. He had cow sense, and horse sense, and something almost approaching human sense.
“I’m keeping you,” she whispered into the darkness. If Chico couldn’t do cutting, she’d do something else with him. He was hers.
But when she turned from the window, the Misty Lassiter pictures looked down on her in the dark; shadowy horses facing cattle, Misty riding in all of them.
Sierra went to her bureau and switched on the small light. She looked at herself in the mirror. Gradually her face took on the Lassiter Look—calm, flinty, confident, determined.
Cowboy up, Ranch Girl! He can learn how to cut cattle, if you can find the way to teach him.
CHAPTER 8
ALL THE NEXT DAY, BETWEEN EATING, NAPS, and liniment rubs and hugs from Sierra, Chico watched the wounded calf and its mother. The calf didn’t smell of blood anymore. It smelled sweet and grassy from its mother’s constant licking. It blundered around stiffly, and the cow kept a sharp watch on it. She watched Chico, too.
The two pens shared a water tub. When the cow came to drink, Chico sauntered closer, picking up wisps of hay from the ground, pretending to pay no attention. The cow wasn’t buying it. She tossed her horns and made blowing sounds. Then she drank again.
Chico lifted his nose to the water. He took a couple of swallows, then raised his head. He breathed in the cow’s sweet, grassy scent. She looked at him through her thick lashes, and sniffed deeply, too. Then she turned away, but not as if she was frightened.
After dark, when the coyotes sang far out on the grassland, the cow nudged her calf closer to the horse fence. She and Ch
ico stood listening until the shrieks faded.
By morning, the cow stood comfortably near him, washing her calf. Chico stuck his nose through the bars, and the cow turned her head and gave him a swipe with her long, rasping tongue.
Startled, he drew back. But it did feel good. He put his head near again, and the cow began washing his face. Her rhythmic tongue put him into a trance. After a long time, he realized he was being watched. Lazily he turned his head and saw Sierra leaning against the fence. Her eyes were wide, but she didn’t say a thing; and Chico turned back to his new friend.
THIS IS THE HARDEST PART, SIERRA THOUGHT. Calling Misty.
No, the hardest part was making herself call Misty.
She’d lain awake for two nights now, imagining training Chico all by herself. She’d get Dad to loan her some cows. She’d work Chico in the pen with them one at a time, slowly. She’d felt herself riding him, saw the cow framed between his ears—
Then the imaginary cow dodged, or ran, or stopped, and a different part of her brain asked, Now what? There were a hundred wrong ways to respond, and only one or two ways that would teach Chico the right thing. She knew enough to know that. Now, watching Chico get a bath from a cow, she was sure he could learn to be calm around cattle. That made it even more important to train him right.
Come on, Ranch Girl! This is your first test.
She brought the phone out to the porch. It was early, but Misty was already on her way to the barn when she answered the call.
“A cow is licking his face? I’d like to see a picture of that!” Misty listened to the stories. Chico chasing cows in the afternoon, guarding a calf at midnight, having his face washed by the mother two days later.
There was a short silence when Sierra was done.
“You’ve committed to this horse, haven’t you?” Misty said.
Sierra nodded, and then hastily said, “Yes.”
“Good! You’d be a fool not to!”
Sierra sagged with relief. Misty understood.
Misty went on: “One of my mentors used to say, ‘Make a cow horse first. Then train a cutting horse, and then see if you can turn him into a competition cutter.’ That’s old-style pasture training and it hasn’t been my approach, because I don’t have a ranch full of cattle to play with. You do. Just take him out and fool around near the cows. Whenever he gives you some of his attention around cattle, reward him. Help your dad move stock around with him. And when you think he’s ready, call me again.”
THE NEXT DAY SIERRA AND ADDIE, CHICO AND the queen went out into the pasture together. When they came upon a cluster of cows, Sierra walked Chico toward one that stood apart from the rest. He pointed his ears at her. Chase? Or not? Somehow it didn’t feel as urgent as a couple of days ago. Sierra asked him to stop, just when the cow was considering moving, and he decided to humor her.
“Good!” Sierra leaned down and offered him a nub of carrot.
Chico crunched it, focusing on her for a moment. More coming?
They stood. They watched the cow, who did nothing.
Boring. Chico turned his head away, and with a light rein, Sierra tipped his nose back toward the cow. “Good!” And another carrot.
Huh! She wanted him to just look at this cow? And she was willing to pay? Good deal!
Chico focused, staring hard. The cow’s ears flickered and she took a step. Chico started to step toward her. Sierra reined him so he was walking parallel with the cow, mirroring her steps, staying well back. No chasing. No running. Bizarre. After a few minutes, when the cow stood still, Sierra dropped her hand on his neck and turned him toward Addie and the queen. Big chunk of carrot. Weird.
They walked around the cows in the pasture every day, all week, and then a second week. Chico was getting bored with it. His calf had healed up, and his cow was back with the herd. He wouldn’t have minded seeing her again, but cows standing still and eating? This was getting old.
Then one afternoon, Sierra actually rode him through a group of cows. Four walking steps and a carrot chunk. Four more, and another chunk. Through the group and out the other side—carrot chunk—and back again. The carrots and praise divided his mind. Instead of concentrating on cows, he was halfway listening to Sierra.
After a few more days, he started to sense when she was staring at a particular cow. If he stared at it, too, he’d get a carrot—nice, but puzzling, all this approval for going slow.
Now he started to love gliding through a herd, so close he could feel the cows’ body heat, hear their stomachs rumble. He loved how they shifted gently out of his way, without haste, without stress. Carrots were cool, too, but not really the point. They were just information that he was making Sierra happy.
He didn’t always make her happy, though. Some days, all the serenity got to him, and he couldn’t resist a little jump at a cow, just to see her run. There was one day when Sierra got off, gave the reins to Addie, and walked away, turning her back on him. She hugged herself, and yelled, “I can’t do this!” She stood there for several minutes. But then she came back, and they went for a gallop across the pasture. That was fun, too. Jackrabbits flashed their tails and ran. The aspen leaves quaked in the dry summer wind. Huge white clouds sailed across the sky. It was a big world out here, and there was more to see than just cows.
But cows were still the best.
Another morning—the grass was high now, the sun hot, and the girls didn’t have school—Sierra did something new. She rode Chico toward a cluster of four cows at the edge of the group, pressing closer and closer until they walked away from the main herd. Zig, zag, zig—
The cows turned and separated, filtering past Chico toward the larger group. Apparently Sierra was okay with that. She was telling him to let it happen—
No. Not all the cattle. She focused on the last one. It tried to pass, and Sierra’s leg nudged Chico over into the animal’s way.
The cow made a move left. Before Sierra’s leg could tell him anything, Chico moved with it. Duck, dodge, block—yes! That was the game. The cow wanted back in. He and Sierra kept her out.
Dimly, Chico heard Sierra say, “Good!” But he didn’t want a carrot slice, and anyway, there was no time. The cow pressed close. Chico put his ears back, ready to charge—and felt Sierra tell him something unbelievable.
Back up?
He did, telling Sierra with his ears that it was a dumb idea.
Only it wasn’t. Suddenly there was room to block the cow again. Somehow it all worked better that way. The cow came to a standstill. Chico felt Sierra’s hand on his neck. “Good boy! Good Chico!” And she hopped off and fed him lots of carrot chunks.
Chico gazed past her at the cattle, eating almost absentmindedly. Something felt so right about what they’d just done. It went way beyond carrots and praise, and the zingy, happy feeling coming off Sierra. He was born for this. He knew it in his bones. It had taken him a long time to understand, but he was here now. In the right place. Doing the right thing.
For the next few weeks, they cut cattle in the pasture every day. Sierra was learning to be helpful, Chico noticed. She picked good cows—lively, smart, interesting ones—and then stayed out of his way as he played with them. She was also starting to melt into the saddle like Misty did, as if they were one. Who moved first or thought first? Who was in charge? Chico didn’t care, as long as they both kept learning, as long as the dance went on.
ONE MORNING IN EARLY AUGUST, DAD ASKED AT breakfast, “Could you and Chico give me a hand today? I need to move some cows up out of the creek bed. It’s got to be done slowly. Is he ready for that?”
“I … think so,” Sierra said cautiously. “At least, I’m pretty sure I can stop him from being bad.”
“Okay,” Dad said with a smile. “We’ll start with that.”
Later, when they followed Dad out to the creek bed, Sierra saw that a group of cows were making it their home instead of roaming with the herd. She could see the trouble spot—a mud hole, with a broad, trampled triangle leading up
out of the water. Several cows grazed under the willows. Others stood in the stream. They looked so peaceful, it seemed sad to disturb them.
But Wyoming grasslands were dry and fragile, and this erosion was ugly, the kind of ugly Dad stayed awake nights worrying about. He loved his land almost as much as he loved his family.
He stopped the four-wheeler and gave Sierra her instructions. “Move them gently up out of the creek bed. Once they’re out, ease way back. Just let them graze along toward the herd. Let ’em think it was their own idea.”
“Won’t they come back?”
“Not if you do it right. Cows go back to where they’ve felt safe and happy. You’re going to keep them safe and happy, just moseying across the flat. They’ll get even happier when they hit grass that isn’t all chewed down. But if you chased them across the flat with a whoop and a holler, they’d think the flat was the scary place, and they’d double back just as soon as we were gone. People say cows are dumb,” Dad went on, looking at Sierra’s puzzled expression. “But they’re the best thing there is at being cows. It’s up to us to figure them out.”
“O-kay.” Sierra rode down the slope toward the water. She’d never ridden Chico into a creek before. Would he go?
At the edge, he hesitated, putting his head down to look. One black-tipped ear tilted back at her. She could nudge him on with her heels, or—
No, better idea. She focused her gaze on the nearest cow, standing brisket deep in the flowing water. Immediately, Chico focused on it, too. He minced down into the creek, paying attention to his footing, yet still locked on the cow.
As they got nearer, Sierra switched her focus to the next cow, then past to an open stretch of water. She turned Chico back toward the group, riding purposefully, but slowly.
Like full diners getting up from a restaurant table, the cattle casually turned and lumbered up the bank, bringing a dark, mucky smell out of the water. Chico waded after them. Sierra looked down at the swirling, honey brown reflection of Chico’s coat and herself on him and suddenly realized—she was happy. Perfectly, deeply happy. Moving cattle. Helping Dad. Helping the creek, and helping the land. Chico was a cow horse, and—I’m definitely a ranch girl!