by Jessie Haas
Up on dry ground, some cattle started grazing. Others headed toward the larger herd off near the trees. Sierra aimed Chico at the lazy ones, getting just inside their bubble—their flight zone, Dad would call it. Chico made a slight suggestion that it would be more fun if they were running, but when she ignored it, he settled into a lazy walk.
The cattle kept moving. Sierra didn’t need Dad’s hand signal. She faded back, letting the cattle stray across the sunny grassland toward their friends and family. It all felt completely peaceful.
“That horse has come a long way,” Dad said, pulling alongside Sierra in the four-wheeler. He’d taken a risk here, Sierra realized, trusting Chico with an important job.
“He really has, hasn’t he?”
“Time for you to give Misty a call?” Dad suggested.
“Probably.” And so much for peace. A hundred worries blossomed. Would she lose the new, calm Chico—the lazy Chico, ambling after cows? Or was it bad that he’d gotten so calm? Had he lost his edge? What if Sierra had done everything, absolutely everything, wrong?
And there was another question, so big that she didn’t want to let herself ask it.
Was competition cutting really what she—and Chico—wanted anymore?
CHAPTER 9
SIERRA PUT OFF MAKING THE CALL TO MISTY. We’re not ready yet, she told herself.
A few days later, she and Chico helped bring in some young stock from the mountain pasture. They climbed high up the slope, along the cow paths that terraced the steep meadows, searching out small groups of cattle and suggesting gently that they move downhill and through the gate. The first time they’d done this, back in the spring, Chico had pranced and danced and tried to blast through the herd. Now, in late summer, he was a working cow horse, strolling when he could, charging when he had to.
They reached the pen. As Chico walked the cattle through the open gate, Sierra saw Misty leaning against the fence. Misty beckoned with one finger. Sierra rode toward her; heart pounding.
“Ranch Girl,” Misty said. “You been holdin’ out on me? How long has he been like this?”
“Um—three weeks? A month?”
“What’ve you been doing with him? Show me your stuff!”
Sierra turned Chico toward the cows. They were unsettled, and she walked him through them until they gathered in a loose bunch near one end of the pen. A group near the edge stuck together, shoving their heads under each other’s necks. Sierra rode behind them, focusing. Chico eased them away from the rest.
Once they were beyond the herd, she let two cows filter past and sharpened her gaze on the third. Chico sharpened, too, crouching to meet the nervous heifer’s gaze, working her left, right, left. A short run, a stop, and she stood still, letting out a bellow of frustration. Sierra put a hand on Chico’s neck, picked up the reins, and turned him toward Misty.
Misty let out a long whistle. She opened the gate to let them out of the pen and closed it behind them. “So,” she said. “What’s the deal?”
Sierra’s hand twisted nervously into Chico’s mane. “I—like him like this. I’m not sure—”
“Not sure you want to rev him up again?”
It was partly that, partly wondering if the other students would welcome Chico back. And did she want to play at working cattle when she could really work cattle right here at home for real? Too complicated to put into words. She nodded.
“Tell you what,” Misty said. “Bring him over. Let’s prep him for my youth show in a couple of weeks. You won’t win. It’s too late for that. But it’ll be good experience for both of you—and who knows? Maybe you’ll have a good time!”
Sierra doubted that; not if this gnawing feeling in her stomach was any clue. But she found that she couldn’t say no.
THE NEXT MORNING BEFORE SUNRISE, SIERRA came down to the corral—in a mood of some sort, Chico could tell. She saddled and rode him across the pastures, over the ditch and up the road to Misty’s.
Pickup trucks were pulling in already, and the place was starting to hum.
Sierra put Chico into his old stall with some hay and disappeared, too tense to say good-bye. Chico didn’t eat. Now he was tense, too. Was it all going to start up again? The laundry? The boredom?
After an hour, Sierra came back, more relaxed. She saddled him again and rode him to the indoor arena—and there were his cattle, the same ones he’d brought in from the mountain pasture yesterday.
Sierra rode him toward them and took up a position beside the herd, just like the last time they were in this arena, a couple of months back. Chico remembered his own excitement from that day, bouncing at Randall’s cow. But there were other memories since then, of quietly moving cattle every day, of focusing where Sierra focused.
Right now, Sierra was focused on the whole herd. Well, not entirely. Part of her was worried about the single rider who rode among the cattle and drove a group out. She would look at him, Chico would glance that way, too, and she’d snap her gaze ferociously back to the herd. Chico tried to keep up with her. Relax. Okay?He carried his head a little lower than normal, pricked his ears softly, breathed deep.
“If you could be as mellow as your horse, Ranch Girl, you’d have it made!” Misty said. And then Sierra did relax, soften into the saddle, and the day got a lot easier. They held the herd near the back wall for three, four, five cutters. Easy work. No sweat. Chico could do it with his eyes shut.
In the afternoon, Sierra rode him home. She was relaxed, exhausted, gleeful. She kept patting him, and when she got off at the gate, she hugged him. A long day, a good day, and there was grain for supper.
Next day, they went to Misty’s again. This time Chico was a turn-back horse. That was harder. Sierra focused on each cow as if she were cutting it, and Chico focused too. As a turn-back horse, he knew now that he wasn’t supposed to go head to head with the cow. He was supposed to make the heifer turn away from him and back toward the cutter. Sierra never once put her hand down and turned things over to him. Still, it was fun. Anytime he got to control a cow was fun.
The third day, Chico got to be the cutter a few times. Misty had a lot to say, and he felt Sierra listening carefully. She used her legs to guide him more. She didn’t seem to know as much as he did about what the cow was going to do, but Chico obeyed her, and a cow got away from him. How could that happen?
Then it happened again.
“You’re trying too hard, Ranch Girl!” Misty said. “Easy does it!”
Sierra stopped using her legs as much. Good! Chico didn’t mind her input in setting up the cut. She knew how to pick a fun cow. But leave the rest to him! He was the one who knew what the cow would do next.
A couple of weeks like this, with here and there a day of rest. As long as there were cows, it was all good for Chico, though maybe somewhat pointless now. At home, there was a job, they did it, and then they did something else. Here the job was always the same and never done. And Sierra wasn’t perfectly settled, though everyone was friendlier to her than in the spring. The other riders asked her questions, usually about cows, and she asked them questions in return. And laughed sometimes, and sometimes made them laugh. But she had something else on her mind. Chico could tell that, but he didn’t know what.
One day, new cattle arrived, strange cattle. Chico didn’t see them, but he could tell by the bellows and the smell. New horses came, too, and new riders. The whole place was in a bustle. That afternoon, Sierra didn’t ride Chico home. She left him in the stall. He almost didn’t want his hay, he was so concerned about that. Almost.
Early the next morning, Sierra came back, with Mom, Dad, and Addie. She was nervous. Chico was, too, with all the bustle of strange horses, strange riders, and strange cattle. He kept an ear cocked as Sierra brushed him, and suddenly he heard a voice he knew. His head swiveled. A deep nicker burst from his throat. Dean!
“Hey, buddy!” Dean said. “I’m glad to see you, too!”
Chico put his nose to Dean’s cheek and inhaled the familiar scent.
He smelled faint traces of his mother and the rest of the herd, of the neighborhood, real laundry, backyard flowers. But mostly it was just Dean, the first human he’d ever known, his friend.
Dean reached into his pocket and brought out—yes, a gingersnap. He was the only person who had ever given Chico a gingersnap. Chico crunched it, and Dean stepped back. After a moment, he whistled. “He looks great! Look at those muscles!”
“We’re very happy with him,” Mom said. “In fact, I wonder if you’d consider parting with one of his brothers next spring. That bay, the quiet one?”
“Oh!” Dean stroked his chin, nodding thoughtfully.
Chico watched him for a moment, then looked around. Where was Sierra? Oh, good—coming with the saddle. He was happy to see Dean, but Sierra was his person now, the one he belonged with.
SIERRA FELT JANGLED. HER WHOLE FAMILY WAS supporting her as if competition cutting were her lifelong dream—which it used to be, but was it anymore? Chico was a cow horse already, a horse with a purpose.
Would he be good today? Would he stay calm? I just want him not to disgrace us! Sierra thought. Though wouldn’t it be amazing if we won? But he couldn’t possibly—
“Breathe, Ranch Girl!” Misty said. She was everywhere at once this morning.
Sierra made a gulping sound.
Misty said, “Listen—a pasture-trained horse like Chico is apt to figure out that he doesn’t have to do some of the stuff we do in competition. I want to keep it real for him. So get saddled and get over to the arena. I want you to settle the herd.”
Sierra gasped. “You want Chico—”
Misty grinned. “Amazing but true!” She strode on, showering words of encouragement everywhere.
In a daze, Sierra saddled up. Settling the herd was one of the most important jobs at a contest. These were new cattle. They’d never been used for cutting before. The settler’s job was to make the herd feel safe near the fence, then drive them gently into the middle and show them that they could get back to the fence; get them used to being moved around by a horse. Show management—in this case, Misty—picked the settler, and it was a mark of trust in both rider and horse.
Chico had been doing this same kind of work all summer, with no helpers and no walls, just miles of open air and grass. He’d done it at the creek bed, and bringing the new cows in. This was a real job, an important job. Done right, it would make the competition better for everyone. Was Chico up to the task in the arena, in front of a crowd, with this buzz of excitement?
Was she?
WHAT WAS THE MATTER WITH SIERRA? CHICO wondered. She kept taking deep breaths, but they weren’t relaxing her.
Misty waved from the doorway of the arena, and Sierra stopped breathing. Chico was having qualms about going in there, too. The building sounded buzzy, like a nest of bees. It didn’t sound safe. But Sierra wanted them to go in, or so she claimed. With a flutter in his stomach, he danced through the door.
Oh! There were a lot of people. They were everywhere, on high seats along the walls. What did they want? Why were they here?
The gate opened at the far end, and Chico saw the strange cows he’d been sensing. They were a kind of cow he’d never seen before: slender, gray, with long ears and slight humps on their shoulders. They clung to each other, more so than the brawny animals he was used to. And they were nervous, quite nervous, milling and shoving each other, trying to not be here.
Suddenly, Chico felt perfectly calm.
Sierra asked him to walk back and forth in front of the cows. Back and forth. Soon the herd loosened up and finally stood quietly. Sierra calmed down, too.
She asked Chico to walk behind the cows—slowly, so slowly. The silky gray heifers bunched together, all walking toward the center of the arena. Chico strolled after them, drawing in their scent in quick, puffing breaths. Young cows. Scared cows. Fast cows.
“Whoa,” Sierra said softly. Chico stood, watching the herd. Then Sierra nodded to the other riders, asking them to move forward.
The cattle turned. Chico wanted to step toward them, but Sierra asked him to stand still. The cattle divided, passed on both sides of him, and clustered together at the fence.
Now Sierra rode Chico through the herd, just as she used to in the pasture. Left to right, bringing half of them out and letting them drift back again. Right to left—one cow broke into a run, and Chico leaped to block her, turn her, get her walking with the group again. And right to left through the herd. Left to right … they felt calm to him now.
Sierra loped him back and forth in front of the cows a few times. Then she rode toward the gate, and the boy Randall rode in, with three helpers.
“Ride turn-back for me?” Randall asked Sierra. “I was going to ask earlier, but you got tapped to be settler.”
“Sure,” Sierra said, as calmly as if cute boys always asked her to do important jobs. He should have asked her earlier; that was cutting etiquette. But she had been busy.
She turned Chico around beside Randall to look over the cows, as his herd holders moved into position. The other turn-back rider was a girl from Laramie, Tory, who was starting to be Sierra’s friend.
“Which cow would you guys pick?” Randall asked.
“Don’t look at me!” Tory said. “Ask Sierra. She knows how to pick a cow.”
Sierra turned red. “I don’t know—the Brahmans aren’t my breed. They all look alike to me.” But already she was starting to see a few differences. “I’d leave that dark one alone, I know that.”
“Really? I kinda like how she looks.” Randall waited for her to say more, but Sierra didn’t know how to put it. He shrugged, glanced at the judge’s booth, and rode forward, holding his rein hand high. Tory and Sierra rode a few steps behind him.
Randall crossed the starting line and eased his horse into the herd, hunting among the cattle. Sierra saw him sift the dark heifer out and discard her. Wow! He was actually taking her advice!
But the dark one pushed into his path again and was among the small group he eased out. Cattle began filtering back around him toward the herd; Sierra stepped Chico toward them, moving them along—uh-oh! Randall had chosen the dark heifer after all, or she had chosen him. There was going to be trouble.
Sure enough, the dark cow was wild, a fence-to-fence runner. She refused to turn, to honor the horse, or to make a serious try to get back into the herd. Sierra had to jump Chico into her way several times, and she could feel him starting to get excited. Quit already! She thought at Randall. Don’t wear us all out on a bad cow.
Eventually, eventually, he figured that out and found his chance to quit. Sierra moved into position to escort the dark Brahman out of his way.
Randall glanced at her. “Which one, Ranch Girl?” he asked quietly.
She didn’t want to be obvious about telling him; this was supposed to be his run. Keeping her Lassiter Look firmly in place, she pointed her chin at a plump, pearl-colored heifer at the edge of the herd—then glanced away quickly before Chico could follow her focus.
Randall needed to work on his Lassiter Look. His surprise was obvious. But he’d already wasted a lot of his two and a half minutes. Delicately, he peeled Plump Pearl off the edge, got her in position, and started to work her.
As Sierra had expected, she was a gem—the greedy ones often were—bright-eyed, self-confident, willing to honor a horse, and she had an unexpected turn of speed. Given a good cow, Randall and his horse put on a nice show, and were well started on their third cut when the buzzer sounded.
They turned to ride out together. “Thanks,” Randall said. “Wish I’d listened to you the first time—well, I did listen, but she was right there, all framed up, and you know how it is. When one cow’s a little different than the others, isn’t that the one you pick every time?”
“That’s a guy thing, Randall!” Tory said.
Sierra didn’t think so. She’d seen lots of riders pick a cow with odd markings or a different coloration. It wasn’t always a good cow; or not one she’
d pick herself. But, as a ranch girl, she knew cattle—and that gave her an advantage in cutting.
Which sounded like she was staying in the game, didn’t it?
Outside the arena Randall got off and loosened his girth.
“Will you—ride for me?” Sierra asked quickly, before he could disappear to take care of his horse. “I’m Number Eight.”
“Sure! I won’t give you any advice about cows, though!”
When he was out of earshot, Tory said, “I like the boys in cutting. They tend to be nicer.”
“And smarter!” Sierra added.
“‘All you got to be is smarter than a cow!’” Tory went on. “That’s what Misty says.”
“‘Cows are smarter than you think.’” Sierra answered. “That’s what my dad says!”
THREE TIMES CHICO WALKED INTO THE ARENA, and helped Sierra turn cows back toward the cutter. The energy was high in the arena. He was starting to feel on tiptoes, ready for a little action.
The fourth time they walked in he was slightly in the lead—and yes! It was his turn! Holding the reins high, Sierra rode him toward the herd of mouse-colored heifers and into their midst.
It was hard to make way among them. They were so clingy, afraid of being separated from each other. Many had been worked already, and those cows kept diving back toward the wall. Chico listened for the light touch of the reins on his neck and for Sierra’s focus—which was a little lacking. Hey! Pay attention! Never mind the people!
He helped her loosen up a group of cows and move them to the center. They started filtering back to the herd, encouraged by the turn-back riders. But Sierra was distracted, scattered. Chico tossed his head, ears flat. C’mon! Get with the progam!