Chico's Challenge

by Jessie Haas

  Sierra gasped. Good! She was back with him, eyeing the cows, selecting, sifting—

  Committed.

  The reins fell loose. The extra cattle drifted away, and Chico found himself eye to eye with a shocked gray heifer.

  She made a dash—oh, good, a lively one! Chico pounced, came level with the heifer’s head, and dropped to a crouch as she stopped. She dashed the other way.

  Oh no, you don’t!

  A smart cow. She dodged and ducked, and Chico mirrored her every move, ears and eyes and every possible sense locked onto her until, with a moan of desperation, she wheeled toward the turn-back riders. What an intense cow!

  The second one was a dud. It made a few short dashes, as imaginative as the laundry. Chico was glad to quit that one and turn back to the herd, chip off another heifer from the outside and begin maneuvering—

  The buzzer droned. Claps, whistles—oh yeah! There were people out there.

  But more important was Sierra’s hand on his neck, warm and grateful and full of zing. “Wow! Chico, that was amazing.”

  And it was over. They walked out of the arena with the other riders, and Sierra hopped off. A hug around the neck, a chunk of carrot. Then she loosened Chico’s girth.

  Phew! That felt good. There was Mom with a hug for each of them, Dean with another gingersnap, Dad with a water bucket, and Addie chirping, “Chico, Chico!”

  A strange voice said, “I don’t suppose you’d consider selling him?”

  Misty’s voice cut in. “Don’t be ridiculous! Of course she wouldn’t sell him.” She gave Chico a friendly clap on the neck and turned to look at Sierra. “What do you think, Ranch Girl? You want to do competition cutting with this horse?”

  Sierra’s eyes were wide and bright, looking off into the future. Slowly she nodded, and nodded again.

  “I want to do everything with him,” she said.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE DAYS WERE CRISP AND FROSTY NOW. THE girls had school again. Afternoons, they hurried to the horse corral to saddle up for a ride. By the time they got back, the shadows of the pines were long across the brown grass.

  The calves were fat and furry now. The cattle ate urgently, fattening up for winter. There was still good in the grass, despite its color, and they all felt hungry.

  Chico’s own sides were thick with new hair. Once in a while, a warm day came, and he and the queen sweated, standing in the paddock. Chico could smell the fragrant hay in the barn. He could smell the spicy leaves on the mountains. Beyond that, he sensed the cold, a way off, but coming.

  On weekends, Sierra sometimes rode him over to Misty’s to work with the laundry, and sometimes with goats. Chico liked goats; their bleating amused him, and they were much less predictable than cattle. Lots of times, he couldn’t tell what a goat would do next. The deep connection wasn’t there the same way for him as it was with cattle—but it made for a better game. And, no doubt about it, he liked the game. He belonged here now, as much as he belonged on the ranch. People stopped to watch his training sessions. He was somebody.

  Back home, he was somebody, too; a partner, as important as the four-wheeler and the the dog, or the queen.

  One evening, a raw wind picked up. The horses stood with their backs to it all night. In the morning, it was still blowing, and big clouds swirled over the mountains northward. Chico smelled snow.

  Dad and Sierra came down to the corral together, bundled in thick coats. Sierra got Chico ready. Then she and Dad stood with their breath making white puffs on the air and looked at the mountain.

  “The weather service says we have about twelve hours before it hits,” Dad said. “But I don’t trust that. They’ve been wrong already about this storm. We have to move fast. I’ll take the lower sections, and you comb the high pasture. But, Sierra, listen to me.”

  His voice sounded so serious that even Chico pricked his ears up, as Sierra turned her head to look at him.

  “When you see the first snowflake,” Dad said, “I mean it, the very first—you turn around with the cows you’ve got and get off that mountain. Okay? If you aren’t back at the gate by the time the ground’s white, I’m calling in mountain rescue. We’re talking helicopters, dogs, the whole nine yards. You will not believe how embarrassed you’ll be!”

  “But the cows—”

  “Will be snowed in up there. Probably we’ll be able to get them off the mountain in a week or so. If not—then we’ll lose some. That’s the hazard of being a rancher, and it’s the hazard of being a cow. The first snowflake, Sierra!” He pointed his gloved finger at her, and she nodded.

  They set out; Dad and dog on the four-wheeler, Sierra and Chico trailing behind. Dad opened the gate to the mountain pasture and got his grain bucket out of the back. He shook it; what an appetizing sound!

  “Give Chico a handful,” Sierra said.

  Dad held out his hand, mounded with molasses-sweet grain. Chico was still crunching as Sierra turned him toward the trail.

  Up they went, higher and higher. Usually they would meet cattle, but there were none today. The air was raw and burned Chico’s lungs. The wind made him feel jumpy. Things looked different on a windy day. Was that actually a rock, or some kind of animal giving him the hairy eyeball?

  Sierra paid no attention to that. She focused the way she did in a herd of cattle—but there were no cattle. Were there? Chico didn’t see any, or hear them. In fact, the whole mountainside pasture seemed oddly empty.

  “Maybe they were all smart and headed downhill,” Sierra said. “Come on, let’s try this trail.” She turned Chico toward a large boulder. A narrow trail led past it. Intriguing. Chico liked trails. But …

  No. Ignoring the reins, he turned his head and then his whole body and looked in the opposite direction, across the mountainside. If it was cattle she wanted—and it usually was—then they should go this way. He couldn’t see or hear cows and he couldn’t really smell them either—but he could almost smell them, off toward those trees.

  Sierra turned him back toward the boulder and the trail. As politely as he could, Chico kept on turning, full circle, and pointed his ears toward the grove of trees.

  “Chico!” Sierra said.

  Then she stopped and drew a deep breath. “Okay,” she said. “You’re the cow horse. We’ll try it your way. Brr!” Chico heard a zip as she snugged her zipper up.

  The going across the mountainside was steep and uneven, until Chico’s feet suddenly found a narrow trail, a cow path. Now, though the wind blew the scent around and filled his mind with the idea of snow, he could tell that cattle had traveled this way recently. He walked carefully, fitting his feet into the path, pricking his ears thoughtfully and sampling the air with light, fluttery snorts.

  Something tickled his ear. Something else tickled his neck.

  “Uh-oh! Snow!”

  Sierra asked him to stop and looked, first uphill and then down. Chico had been able to hear Dad’s voice and the sound of barking for a long time, but not any longer.

  More tickles. Snowflakes caught on Chico’s eyelashes, blurring his vision.

  “We’d better turn around,” Sierra said. “I hope the cows will be okay.” She picked up the reins. Chico turned gladly on the tiny trail. He’d had enough of this cold mountainside.

  But as his head swept around, Chico caught a glimpse of something. He froze, staring. There, among the dark branches of the black pines, he saw a flash of red and white. Cattle, huddled and shoving against each other, and one heifer at the edge of the herd, staring back at him.

  Sierra nudged him with her legs. Instead of obeying, he snatched at the reins, turning back, jerking his nose toward them. There! Cows!

  Sierra looked where he was looking and stiffened in the saddle. Chico couldn’t tell what she wanted to do. Go back to them? Keep heading downhill? Snowflakes hissed around them, bending down the goldenrod stalks.

  She seemed to reach some kind of decision. “I don’t care, we can’t leave them, Chico. Not when we’re this clos
e. C’mon!”

  Slipping on the slender track, Chico trotted toward the cows. Now he could see them clearly, a group of eight or ten huddled within a grove of trees. Sierra turned him aside from the path. He didn’t get that for a moment, and then he understood. She wanted to come in behind them.

  He climbed the steep rocky slope, slipping, struggling. Then he was above the cows, and she turned him back downhill again. He braced, sliding down on his haunches in a cloud of steaming breath and swirling snowflakes. The cows whooshed their breath and trotted out from under the trees.

  Sierra’s hand on the reins asked him to pause. The first cow found the path. The others fell in behind it, single file. When they’d gotten well underway, Sierra let Chico follow, back toward the main trail. He could hear Dad calling now, but he wasn’t sure Sierra could. Humans had very limited senses—

  Far ahead, the lead cow was turning uphill. “Don’t you dare!” Sierra gasped.

  She clapped her legs against Chico’s sides. He blasted across the hillside, snow and dirt flying, and slammed to a stop in front of the cow. The others fanned toward the main trail and started walking quickly downhill. The former leader slung her head in the air defiantly, but turned and followed the rest.

  “Good, Chico!” Sierra said.

  She hunched her coat tighter around her. Chico angled his ears to the sides to keep the snow out. They followed the cows, down through the belt of trees, toward the sound of barking and the motor and—

  Here came Dad, blasting up the trail; the four-wheeler’s engine was really working hard. He pulled his vehicle aside when he saw the cows, and they hurried past him. Now that they’d gotten started, they seemed to know just what to do. There was no need to even drive them through the gate. They hustled through on their own, toward the sheltered lower pastures.

  Dad pulled up to shut the gate. The dog hopped onto the seat and flattened his ears briefly at Chico. Good job, horse.

  “Good work, you two,” Dad said.

  Sierra didn’t say anything, just put her gloved hand on Chico’s neck. He felt that zing coming off her, and he knew why. They’d done a big job, he and Sierra, the job they were born for. Cutting was a blast, but this was the real thing. He felt full of fizz, too, and the snowflakes tickled, and he couldn’t help prancing. Let’s go! Let’s move!

  “All done, Dad?” Sierra asked. “Okay, we’re out of here!” With a wild whoop, she slackened the reins.

  All right! Chico exploded into a gallop, across the snowy pasture toward home.

  CUTTING AND THE AMERICAN QUARTER HORSE

  THE QUARTER HORSE IS THE MOST POPULAR breed in the world, with more than 4 million registered worldwide. Approximately one third of the 9.2 million horses in the United States are quarter horses.

  The breed originated on the East Coast of the American colonies, from Rhode Island, south. The English settlers were passionate about horse racing, but it was too much work to create a standard racecourse in the wilderness. The settlers scraped out quarter-mile tracks—sometimes it was the main street of the village—and ran short races. This favored explosive speed rather than the staying power of the English thoroughbred. The colonists called their racehorses “short horses, “quarter-milers,” or “quarter-pathers.”

  The original horses were Spanish barbs, crossed with free-roaming horses of Spanish origin, some wild and some bred by the Chickasaw nation. The barbs spread from a Spanish colony in Florida. Thoroughbred stallions imported after 1750 added more speed and endurance.

  When distance racing became popular in the 1800s, the quarter-pathers went out of fashion as racehorses. Always good-tempered and versatile, they moved west with white settlers, pulling buggies and even plows.

  As cattle ranching rose in importance, Western settlers discovered the great talent of their horses. Thanks to their Spanish blood, they had excellent “cow sense” and the speed and agility to perform well as ranch horses. That kindness, athleticism, and cow sense make quarter horses the world’s premier Western sport horse.

  Quarter horses still race on quarter-mile tracks today. They’re the horse of choice for chariot and cutter racing, barrel racing, cowboy mounted shooting, reining, roping, and cutting. They also compete in English sports like dressage, eventing, jumping, and even driving.

  American quarter ponies (like Queenie) have been bred since the 1960s. They are an 11.2 to 14.2 hand-high version of the American quarter horse, sturdy and substantial animals with the same agility and cow sense as quarter horses.

  The sport of cutting is dominated by quarter horses. Cutting is based on ranch work. Cowboys always needed to bring individual cows out of the herd, for branding, for administering medicines to, or for separating animals to be sold. Horses with a special talent for doing this were much admired. Contests were often set up, with differing formats.

  In 1946, the National Cutting Horse Association was organized by thirteen ranchers and cowboys at the Fort Worth Stock Show & Rodeo. The organization is now active in all fifty states and twenty-two foreign countries.

  Each cutting contestant has two and a half minutes to cut at least two cows from the herd. One cow must be brought out from deep inside the herd. The other cuts may be chipped from the edge of the herd.

  The contestant has four riders of her choice to help. Two are herd holders, positioned on either side of the herd to keep the cattle from drifting into the middle of the arena. Two more riders stay between the cow being worked and the judges’ stands. These are the turn-back riders; they turn the cow back to the cutter if it tries to escape.

  When the cutter has separated one cow from the herd, she must give the horse his head; it is now the horse’s job to hold the cow and keep it from rejoining the herd.

  A cutting horse must be calm among cattle, yet capable of explosive bursts of speed and the ability to dominate cattle. Horses with Spanish ancestry, like quarter horses, are particularly apt to have “cow sense.” This is due to centuries of driving and working cattle on the Spanish plains, and also to the sport of bullfighting, which makes cow sense a matter of life and death.

  American quarter horses are naturals for cutting, but other breeds do well, too; paints, Appaloosas, Morgans, and mustangs have all excelled at cutting.

  Like all sports, cutting has its own jargon. Here are a few frequently used terms:

  Baldie: white-faced cow

  Commit: show intention to work a specific cow by looking at it and stepping toward it

  Cow sense: the horse’s natural instinct for anticipating a cow’s moves

  Cowy: showing cow sense and enthusiasm for working cattle

  Cutter’s slump: posture of cutting-horse riders when they are sitting deep in the saddle. The rider sits on his back pockets with his back relaxed and curved slightly forward.

  Drop on a cow: crouching posture of the horse when a cow has been cut and separated, and the rider drops his rein hand on the horse’s neck

  Help: herd holders and turn-back riders. Asking someone to be a herd holder or turn-back rider at a competiton is referred to as “hiring help,” though no money changes hands.

  Honor: refers to a cow that will acknowledge and look at a horse and rider

  Quit: stop working a cow

  Western: a description Western riders use for unruly behavior in a horse

  For more information, go to the National Cutting Horse Association Web site.

  American Quarter Horse Association: www.aqha.com

  National Cutting Horse Association: www.nchacutting.com

  JESSIE HAAS has raised and trained three horses, starting with Josey when she was in seventh grade. The author of over thirty books, she has been called “the current queen” of children’s horse stories (BCCB, April 2004). Unbroken won the Parents’ Choice Award, Horse Crazy! won the American Horse Publications Award, and Jigsaw Pony is a Gryphon Award Honor Book. Jessie lives in southern Vermont with her husband, writer Michael J. Daley, two cats, a dog, and a hen, and is currently training a Morga
n mare named Robin. www.jessiehaas.com

  CHICO’S CHALLENGE. Copyright © 2011 by Reeves International, Inc. All rights reserved. by Quad/Graphics, Fairfield, Pennsylvania. For information, address Feiwel and Friends, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  A FEIWEL AND FRIENDS BOOK

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  Book design by Barbara Grzeslo

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  eISBN 9781466816060

  First eBook Edition : April 2012

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available

  First Edition: 2011