by Debra Busman
Snakeskin
Taylor spotted Dutch leaning up against the corral fence, a dusty boot up on the bottom rail, his Levi’s slick and stiff with dirt. The old guy don’t even have an ass left on him anymore, Taylor thought, making her way over to him. Guess he’s just wore it off riding all them horses.
She felt good. Tired, but good. Like she might just be able to keep this new job. She came up quiet beside the barrel-chested, flat-butt old cowboy, unsure about interrupting his thoughts.
“I’m all finished stacking the hay,” she finally said. “Got the grain all mixed up with the molasses like Mr. Gordon said, and the barn’s swept good. Got the paddocks cleaned out and them five new stalls, too. Dumped all the shit out in that gully just like you said.”
Dutch didn’t even act like he heard her, just kept looking out into the corral, watching the new filly kicking up dust, acting all wild and foolish.
“Girl, can you rope?” he finally asked, spitting out a wad of chewing tobacco and turning to look at Taylor.
“No, sir. I can’t,” she said, struggling to meet his eye.
Lying to the boss was one thing, but this guy knew what he was doing. She had lied like a rug to the Gordons to get this job, bragging on all the experience she had working with horses, making up stories faster than the blinking young couple could ask her questions. She’d corralled every tale she’d ever read or seen on TV concerning horses into what she hoped was a credible proof of her worthiness.
“Just give me a chance,” Taylor had told them. “I’ll work hard. I ain’t never been afraid of work. I’ll take real good care of your horses and your nice place here and all. I’ll do right by you, you’ll see.”
The Gordons had liked her, Tom Gordon especially, and hired her on the spot, room and board, fifteen dollars a week spending money. “She’s got spunk, honey. Strong, too. I like this gal.” His wife just nodded, not quite sure about this skinny girl with muscles like a boy and a mouth that wouldn’t quit. When they told her to go on back home and get her gear, she could start right away, she excused herself, stepped outside, and returned with the small bag she had stashed out behind the rose bush in the front yard. A little stunned, Mrs. Gordon had shown Taylor to her room at the back of the house.
Now Taylor’s heart sank as she felt the bowlegged old foreman sizing her up for real. She knew she couldn’t hide anything from Dutch and there didn’t seem any way into him, any weak spot for her to work a hustle on him either. Tom Gordon would be easy to handle. Taylor had seen a hundred guys like him before, seen how he had checked out her ass, unbuttoned her Levi work shirt with his eyes. That she could work. But Dutch was tight, self-contained, careful about what, if anything, he showed or let in. Taylor made a mental note never to play cards with this guy. If she could even keep her job long enough to get into a card game, that is.
She had been looking forward to shaking down the Gordons and their fancy rich friends. A little at a time, of course. But this guy was different. She saw Dutch look down at her brand-new Tony Lama boots, intentionally scuffed up to look not new, stolen from Bob’s Western Wear the day before her interview. Unable to be too picky about size, style, and color, Taylor just knew they were the most expensive ones in the store. She hoped they’d bring her luck. Two sizes too big for her, the red lizard-skin boots were stuffed with toilet paper and still pinched her toes. Taylor’s feet already ached real bad and the day was only half over.
“Nice boots,” Dutch said, rubbing his chin. Half his two-day stubble was coming in grey, the other half the color of sand, like the hair sneaking out from under his hat.
“Thanks,” Taylor said. “My daddy got these for me. Real live snakeskin,” she added.
Dutch’s mouth twitched a little and he turned back out to the corral. “How you fixin’ to bring that filly in if you can’t rope?” he asked. “Boss wants her in by three. Shoer’s comin’ this afternoon.” Dutch squinted over at her. “Now, is it that you can’t rope very good or you can’t rope at all?”
“Can’t rope at all,” Taylor said, knowing it wasn’t worth it to even try to lie. “Never learned.” She paused. “But I’ll get you your horse.”
“Well, Carl could rope a tick off a cow’s butt at full gallop,” Dutch chuckled. “But I can’t say as it did him any good with that filly out there. He roped her, okay, but she caught him good with a cow kick when he leaned down to cinch up her girth. Split his cheek wide open, sent him packing with an ugly scar and a wad of severance pay.”
“I ain’t scared of her.” Taylor worked a splinter loose from the top corral board, pissed that a damn horse might cost her this new job.
Dutch’s creased face broke into a grin. “Ain’t no shame in being a little bit afraid, girl. Horses are powerful creatures, worthy of a little mortal fear.” He looked out at the dark bay filly, grazing a hundred yards out. At sixteen and a half hands, she was tall even for a Thoroughbred, still a little gangly but muscling up nice and long in the chest. Dutch had argued to keep her, even after she’d practically killed Carl.
“She’s got spirit, boss,” he’d told Tom Gordon. “Got a lotta heart and spirit. You’ll need that at the track. I knew her daddy. You just can’t cowboy horses like that. That’s where Carl went wrong.”
Dutch noticed that the filly was keeping a close eye on the two figures by the fence. Turning to Taylor, he said, “Well. You go on back to the barn now and get yourself a halter and a lead rope. Guess we better see what you can do with that wild gal out there. I’m going to go take me a siesta.”
Taylor walked back to the barn, wishing she could get out of the damn cowboy boots and back into her wide-toed black street boots. “Why they gotta make these things so damn pointy?” she grumbled. “Probably so they can kick their damn stupid horses,” she answered herself, grinning at her own joke. She pushed open the heavy wooden door and entered the warm, sweet, hay-smelling darkness, wishing she could just stay inside for a while and take her own siesta. That morning, when she had stacked the two new tons of alfalfa, she’d left a place in between the top bales where she could curl up and hide, or sleep, if she needed to. Taylor knew to make sure she always had a few good places to hole up.
She ducked through a side door and headed over to the row of brass-plated hooks lining the tack room wall. A bright green halter and rope hung beneath the filly’s nameplate: “Fancy Dancer,” out of “Shall We Dance.” Mrs. Gordon had told Taylor that Shall We Dance had been a seven-time winner at Santa Anita before pulling up lame and getting turned out to stud. They had high hopes for his daughter. “Fancy Dancer, Pain in the Antser,” Taylor grumbled, reaching for the halter. She tossed the lead rope over her shoulder and headed back out, stopping at the grain bin to fill her pockets with the hippie food she’d just learned rich people fed to their horses. If I gotta be out there chasing some damn horse, Taylor thought, I’m damn well gonna bring me something good to eat.
Taylor walked down the row of paddocks she had shoveled clean that morning, noticing that they all had steaming piles of fresh manure. The horses came up to the fence, curious, expectant. “What do you want from me?” Taylor growled. “Is this how it’s gonna be? I feed it in one end and shovel it out the other? Three times a day. What a life.” Her boss’s trail horse, Rusty, the old paint gelding in the end corral, gave a soft nicker as Taylor approached. She stopped to stroke his neck and rub behind his ears, hesitating before climbing into the corral with the wild filly. “Hey, why don’t you just tell your girlfriend over there to come on over,” Taylor asked the gelding. He nuzzled her pockets for grain.
Taylor looked around to see if anyone was watching.
“Hey, maybe you’d let me practice this halter contraption on you a couple times before I try it on Miss Wild Thang out there.” She unhooked the halter’s throatlatch and slipped it up over Rusty’s head, catching one of his ears, tangling up his forelock. He pushed her chest softly with his head, protesting. She pulled his ear clear, tucked the headpiece down into the bri
dal path, and buckled the throat strap, straightening Rusty’s mane. “Damn, this thing is a lot harder to put on a real live horse head,” Taylor said, stroking Rusty’s neck.
The day before her interview she’d hitchhiked out to Calabasas Feed and Tack and practiced for an hour putting halters on the plastic life-sized model of Roy Rogers’ horse Trigger. But Trigger stood still. Getting this halter on a moving target was a tricky operation.
Taylor practiced a few more times with Rusty till she had it pretty well figured. “Well, old guy, thanks for lending me your sweet old head. Guess I’d better go try this on your girlfriend over there.”
Fancy Dancer grazed in the next pasture, keeping an eye on the girl.
“Hey, Fancy Schmancy,” Taylor called out, climbing into the corral. “Let’s get this over with so I can go back to bed.” The filly raised her head, watching the girl approach. Taylor moved slow, humming a Rolling Stones song, swinging the halter in her left hand, holding the lead rope in her right. When she got within twenty feet of the filly, Taylor stopped, unsure. She stood facing the filly. “Please don’t make this difficult,” Taylor pleaded.
She held out the halter, raising it up in what she hoped was a beckoning gesture. Fancy Dancer tossed her head and bolted across the field, stopping a few hundred yards away. Taylor cursed and followed after her. Again and again the horse let Taylor get within fifteen or twenty feet of her and then took off, just out of range. Taylor limped after her, cursing.
Taylor began to sweat in the low winter sun. She wanted to cry. She wanted to shoot the damn horse or at least kick it with her stupid pointy cowboy boots. Her feet were killing her and she could barely stand up. The filly wasn’t even out of breath. The girl and the young horse faced one another, about thirty feet apart, both braced, ready for the next thing. Taylor wished she had a rope, wished she knew how to cross the distance between them, wished she could somehow just fling out a circle of rope and have it land easy on the horse’s neck like they did in the movies, pull her in, have something work for a change. She wished she didn’t need this job so bad, wished she didn’t feel it was all slipping away from her. Taylor took in a deep breath and started walking slowly toward the filly. When she got within ten feet, she stopped, and slowly raised up the halter. Fancy Dancer bolted.
“Goddamn stupid piece of shit horse,” Taylor yelled, throwing the halter after her. “Goddamn worthless mule. Why you fucking with me like this?” Taylor ran after the horse, picking up the halter, waving it in the air, chasing the horse away. “Go on, run away. See if I care. Just get the fuck outta here.”
Taylor ran, stumbling, crying, shaking the halter, swinging the lead rope over her head, driving the horse away. She fell to the ground, exhausted, beyond tears, wondering what would happen if she just laid there, never got up.
When Taylor finally looked up, the filly had circled back around behind her and was pacing back and forth, head low to the ground. Taylor slowly raised up to her knees, trying to keep her eyes low. Fancy Dancer raised her head, facing the girl. She flared her nostrils and snorted loudly, scaring the shit out of Taylor who had never heard such a thing. Taylor stopped, stunned, really noticing the filly for the first time. A tall, glossy bay, Fancy Dancer was almost black, her dark brown coat shiny, steaming in the cool air. Her mane and tail were jet black, as were her legs, except for a white sock on her front left fetlock. Her forehead was broad with a white lightning streak across it; her eyes, which Taylor saw clearly now, were large dark pools, filled with intelligence and spirit. “Damn,” Taylor said. “Who are you, anyway? You are so fucking beautiful.”
The filly widened her eyes and snorted again, sniffing for danger. Taylor reached out her hand and the horse bolted, hooves pounding, sending clods of dirt flying. This time, though, she circled tight around Taylor, keeping her inside ear up, open and flat, listening. Taylor stood still, in awe of the creature’s beauty. She watched the filly’s shoulder muscles lengthen, then contract with each stride. The young horse’s uncut mane blew wild as she ran, her breath steaming the cool air.
“Yeah, you go on ahead and take off,” Taylor told the filly. “I don’t blame you. People chasing after you all the time, running you down with ropes and halters. Why the fuck should you let me catch you, anyway?” Taylor took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It sure would be nice if you did, though. If I lose this job, I gotta go back out on the streets and there ain’t nothing but trouble waiting for me there. You think you got it bad here, shit, you oughta check out the streets. Here you just gotta stand around, look pretty, get hay thrown at you, and only every once in a while have some clown with a rope come in and mess with you. Out there, everybody be trying to mess with you, every minute of the night and day. Mess with you in ways you didn’t even think was invented yet.”
Taylor looked down at the ground. The filly lowered her head, relaxing her neck. Taylor saw the movement and raised her eyes quick back to the young horse. Fancy Dancer jerked her head back up, tensing her neck, ready to run.
“I’m not gonna bother you none, girl. I already decided that. It’s okay.” Taylor turned her shoulder to the filly and looked back toward the house. “Coulda been a cool job, too.” As the girl turned away, the horse moved in toward her a stride or two. Taylor looked back in surprise and the filly stopped, tensing. “You’re kind of curious about me, aren’t you, girl?” Taylor asked, her voice low, soothing. She lowered her gaze to the horse’s neck and noticed Fancy Dancer relax again. “Okay, we got something going here. Maybe you’re not so tough after all. Maybe you’re just like me and all them other punks. Acting all tough on the outside, playing like don’t nothin’ matter, then movin’ in to check shit out when we think no one’s looking.”
Taylor kept on talking, keeping her voice low and easy, watching Fancy Dancer for clues. On a hunch, Taylor turned and started slowly walking away. The filly began to follow her. Taylor turned back to face her. The young horse stopped, ready to run but not running. Taylor saw the horse’s mouth relax, making small chewing movements. Its eyes were wide, ears forward, alert. Taylor turned and continued walking away, Fancy Dancer following close behind. She turned and walked in another direction and the horse kept following her.
“Damn, I was right.” Taylor laughed. “I think you’re just like me. I think you want some company. You just don’t want somebody chasing after you, all rude and all. Hell, I don’t want that either. Only difference is, you’re a better runner than me. Me, I just gotta stand my ground and fight the motherfuckers.” Taylor looked down, kicking a little hole in the dirt with her boot. “Dammit, see, that’s why I don’t want to go back out there. Somebody gonna get killed. You understand?” Fancy Dancer pawed the ground a couple of times, then took a few steps toward the girl.
Taylor’s breath caught. She turned and looked up at the filly. Fancy Dancer startled, tensed up, ready to run. Taylor looked away. “You don’t like me looking straight at you, do you, girl? Yeah, I can understand that. I seen people like that before. Billy, this friend’s pimp I know, you just try and look at that guy any way but below his chest and that sucker’ll pull a knife on you quicker than you can spit. Hates people looking in his eyes.”
Taylor sighed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the filly watching her, head low, mouth chewing, relaxed again.
“So you like it when I talk, huh, girl? Okay. I can keep talking. That’s one thing I know how to do real good.” Taylor talked low, keeping her eyes away from the filly. She crouched back down and tore off a small branch of chaparral, pinching off the thin needle like leaves. “So, what you want to know, anyway? Wanna know my pitiful life story? Wanna hear how I fight the bums out behind Montgomery Wards each night for the privilege of sleeping in a cardboard box? How I raid the dumpsters for food? How every night I wake up to find some guy’s dick poking round me, looking for a hole? Nah, that shit don’t matter. I can take care of all that.”
Taylor felt the filly move in closer.
“Okay, you pro
bably wanna know what I can’t handle. Besides you, that is. I’ll tell you what I can’t handle. I can’t handle that I’m turning out just like them. I can’t handle that the other night I almost killed someone. No, I can handle that. What I can’t handle is that I almost liked it. I was getting ready to blow this trick in his El Dorado down on Sunset, had the clown’s money and everything, hands on his pants, ready to go when the asshole starts talking about how much I look like his daughter. Now, I’ve heard that shit a hundred times before, but somehow this time it just works me and then the motherfucker puts his hand on my tit and starts calling me his little girl and next thing I know I got my knife up against the john’s throat, screaming at him, ‘If you ever touch your daughter again I’ll kill you!’ I watch his face get all pink and blotchy, eyes bulging out, his fear stink filling up the car, piss leaking out, staining his fancy pants, staining his fancy leather seats and I want to cut the motherfucker so bad it hurts. You understand? I want to do him.”
Taylor snapped the branch and looked over at the filly. Fancy Dancer was about ten feet away, head down, moving closer. Taylor kept her shoulder turned from the filly, her eyes down a little. She stayed totally still, silent, and let the horse approach her. Fancy Dancer came slowly up, a step at a time, till Taylor could feel the filly’s hot breath blowing on her cheek. The filly lowered her head, nuzzling into her shoulder. Taylor slowly let out her breath. She felt Fancy Dancer’s lips pulling at her pocket.