Yesterday’s phone call had unleashed waves of that same nervous energy. The voice at the other end said a load of horses was ready to ship out from Bloomfield, Nebraska, and would show up around noon tomorrow. Meaning today. Meaning in two hours. Meaning I had better find something else to ease the jitters.
I shoved the bookkeeping ledger in the desk drawer and grabbed my hat. A chat with Clyde, that’s what I needed. Earlier I had sent John and Russ out to the West Whitelands pasture to repair a windmill. No sense in having everyone wait around headquarters. They would be back before the horses arrived. The Pitkin kids had tried to talk their way out of going to school, but John reassured them that unloading the horses was no big deal. The mustangs would run down the truck ramp into the corral in minutes. “Besides,” he said, “they’ll be with us for a long time.” But a shadowed rendition of their collective pout crossed his face when I doled out the windmill assignment.
The intermittent whir of a distant drill pulled me toward the corrals. In one of the small corrals north of the barn Carlos straddled the top rung of metal tubing, steadying one end of a long piece of lumber while Ramon attached the other end to a post with lag screws. I opened the main gate into the large training arena. At dawn John and I had walked through it for the fiftieth time, shaking the fencing and rub boards that Carlos and Ramon had reinforced. It was a fortress. Strong enough to withstand the power of angry or crazed mustangs and, at six feet tall, too high for them to jump.
I walked across the arena into the cool sanctuary of the barn and let my eyes adjust. Dust lazed in the shafts of light. The calming scent of worn leather, seasoned wood, horse feed, and horse soothed my nerves. From his stall, my new horse, Clyde, gave a nicker of recognition. We had gotten acquainted over the last several months after John bought him for me. A handsome sorrel, Clyde fit the bill as a good ranch horse. He wasn’t flashy or high-strung but a solid horse to ride. I grabbed the curry brush off the wooden box next to the grain barrel.
“Hey buddy,” I said, walking into the stall. I stroked his nose with my hand. “How ya doin’?” I ran the brush along one side of his neck. His coat had started to thicken, a response to the expanding chill of nights and decreasing warmth of days. He pushed against the pressure, his head arcing one way, then another in a figure eight of contentment.
“It’s a big day. Our new life is going to begin.” The muscles of his shoulders shifted under my hands as he stretched his head forward. “I have to tell you—and this stays between you and me—we have it all to learn with the wild horses.” I stroked down the withers to his front leg, my free hand following the wake of the brush, a comforting motion for both of us. “Jesus, fifteen hundred of them,” I said. Clyde gave his head a little shake and snorted. “What if we can’t handle them? What if they refuse our training? Refuse to be our friends?” I could hear Red and Roy insisting that a herd of horses couldn’t be trained and would never accept friendship. Clyde reached around to the brush and nuzzled my stalled hand. “Well, I can’t help it. You’ve gotta admit, it’s a little frightening.”
I moved up to the swale of his back, home to my saddle. The brush bumped over a clump of hair wadded by sweat. I smoothed it out and felt carefully for tiny thorns that might rub into his skin and create a sore.
“Well, it’s too late to back out now. The fat’s in the fire.” I rounded up my fears, stashed them on a shelf in the back of my mind, and tuned in to every cell and fiber saying the sanctuary would be a success. The ranch was a horse’s paradise, like an all-inclusive resort with an endless supply of grass and open pasture. On these grounds no one would chase, harass, or kidnap. Our job was to replace the horses’ mistrust with
I shoved the bookkeeping ledger in the desk drawer and grabbed my hat. A chat with Clyde, that’s what I needed. Earlier I had sent John and Russ out to the West Whitelands pasture to repair a windmill. No sense in having everyone wait around headquarters. They would be back before the horses arrived. The Pitkin kids had tried to talk their way out of going to school, but John reassured them that unloading the horses was no big deal. The mustangs would run down the truck ramp into the corral in minutes. “Besides,” he said, “they’ll be with us for a long time.” But a shadowed rendition of their collective pout crossed his face when I doled out the windmill assignment.
The intermittent whir of a distant drill pulled me toward the corrals. In one of the small corrals north of the barn Carlos straddled the top rung of metal tubing, steadying one end of a long piece of lumber while Ramon attached the other end to a post with lag screws. I opened the main gate into the large training arena. At dawn John and I had walked through it for the fiftieth time, shaking the fencing and rub boards that Carlos and Ramon had reinforced. It was a fortress. Strong enough to withstand the power of angry or crazed mustangs and, at six feet tall, too high for them to jump.
I walked across the arena into the cool sanctuary of the barn and let my eyes adjust. Dust lazed in the shafts of light. The calming scent of worn leather, seasoned wood, horse feed, and horse soothed my nerves. From his stall, my new horse, Clyde, gave a nicker of recognition. We had gotten acquainted over the last several months after John bought him for me. A handsome sorrel, Clyde fit the bill as a good ranch horse. He wasn’t flashy or high-strung but a solid horse to ride. I grabbed the curry brush off the wooden box next to the grain barrel.
“Hey buddy,” I said, walking into the stall. I stroked his nose with my hand. “How ya doin’?” I ran the brush along one side of his neck. His coat had started to thicken, a response to the expanding chill of nights and decreasing warmth of days. He pushed against the pressure, his head arcing one way, then another in a figure eight of contentment.
“It’s a big day. Our new life is going to begin.” The muscles of his shoulders shifted under my hands as he stretched his head forward. “I have to tell you—and this stays between you and me—we have it all to learn with the wild horses.” I stroked down the withers to his front leg, my free hand following the wake of the brush, a comforting motion for both of us. “Jesus, fifteen hundred of them,” I said. Clyde gave his head a little shake and snorted. “What if we can’t handle them? What if they refuse our training? Refuse to be our friends?” I could hear Red and Roy insisting that a herd of horses couldn’t be trained and would never accept friendship. Clyde reached around to the brush and nuzzled my stalled hand. “Well, I can’t help it. You’ve gotta admit, it’s a little frightening.”
I moved up to the swale of his back, home to my saddle. The brush bumped over a clump of hair wadded by sweat. I smoothed it out and felt carefully for tiny thorns that might rub into his skin and create a sore.
“Well, it’s too late to back out now. The fat’s in the fire.” I rounded up my fears, stashed them on a shelf in the back of my mind, and tuned in to every cell and fiber saying the sanctuary would be a success. The ranch was a horse’s paradise, like an all-inclusive resort with an endless supply of grass and open pasture. On these grounds no one would chase, harass, or kidnap. Our job was to replace the horses’ mistrust with
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