Faraway Horses (13 page)

Roland and I were out on horseback one day after I had started competing in high school rodeos. He looked over at my horse and said, “You know, there’s a difference between a rodeo cowboy and a working cowboy. Working cowboys don’t use tie-downs or draw reins or any of those gimmicks on their horses.”

He was right, of course. I was still a kid and didn’t realize that using restrictive tie-downs in rough country could be dangerous: a horse that wore one and then stumbled and
fell could have difficulty getting his head back up to regain his balance.

During the winter of 1988 when I was in Florida playing polo, Roland called me up. He had acquired a new horse, a palomino named Tony that was a brother to my horse Bif.

According to Roland, Tony was very broncy. “He bucked me off at this branding, and I landed on the back of my head. It felt like he almost broke my neck. I’m going to get rid of him. What do you think about that?”

Now, Roland was about as subtle as a pool cue in a pencil box. I knew he was fishing for me to validate his decision, so I said, “You know, you’re probably right, Roland. You don’t need a horse like that around.”

Roland was real quiet on the other end of the line, so I paused a second and asked, “Do you think it’ll ever cross your mind that maybe there was something in that horse you missed? That there’s something that you miss on a lot of horses, and maybe it’ll come up again, and you’ll have the same thing happen, and have to get rid of another horse?”

Roland still didn’t say anything, so I went on. “Ah, you know, really, on second thought, you probably should just get rid of him, and don’t worry about it. It probably won’t come up again.” We visited a little bit, and I hung up.

After I got back to Montana that spring, Roland called again. “Hey, I still have that palomino. There’s a horse sale coming up in town, and I thought I’d run him through there. But before I do, maybe I’ll come by, if you don’t mind, and you could have a look at him. Maybe you could
tell me what I missed on him. Then I’ll go ahead and get rid of him.”

I told Roland to come along, and it was pretty clear when we saddled the horse that he had missed some basic groundwork. There were plenty of things Tony couldn’t do with his feet because they weren’t freed up. As a result, he was having trouble moving his hindquarters to his right. He should have been able to distribute his weight evenly on all four quarters while moving forward or back, but he couldn’t. These movements are basic dance steps that a horse learns at the end of a lead rope, and if he can’t do them, there’s a very good chance he’s going to buck somebody off.

I worked with Tony from the back of my saddle horse for a while until his feet were well freed up. Then I told Roland to get on.

Roland looked over at me like he’d swallowed a fly. “You know, the last time he really bucked me off.”

This was coming from a good cowboy who has worked on some of the biggest outfits in the country. Tony had really chilled him.

I said, “Roland, you came by for this moment. You really wanted to know or you wouldn’t have kept Tony this long. You’ve got to trust me here—I wouldn’t try to get you hurt.”

I was sitting in the middle of the round corral on my saddle horse holding on to the end of the lead rope. I had Tony pointed off so he could take a right circle.

Roland swallowed real hard, but he got on. When I told him to move Tony right on up to the lope, he looked at me
and said, “That’s where he got me—loping him off on a right lead.”

“He’s all right, Roland,” I reassured. “He’s all right. Trust me.”

To Roland’s credit, he did. Tony responded to his cue by loping off into the prettiest circle you’ve ever seen. After a minute or so, Roland relaxed and realized he wasn’t going to die. He looked bewildered. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes were asking, Why am I still alive?

When he finally stepped off Tony, Roland was buzzed. All he wanted to do was talk about it. I stopped him and said, “You know, Roland, we’ll have to talk about this some other time, or you’re going to miss your horse sale. I don’t want to make you late.”

Roland headed off to town. He was happy, confused, relieved, and exhausted, and I wasn’t surprised when I learned he didn’t sell the horse.

Tony was a turning point for Roland. For all the experience that he’d had, Roland had decided to become a student again. Since then, he’s worked with lots of horses. He’s had his ups and downs, but he worked at it and today he’s a true student of the horse.

There are two happy endings to this story: Right now Roland is one of the best hands around. Guys who used to think their abilities were on the same level as Roland’s got left behind years ago. Some of the people who were once his equals couldn’t saddle his horse now.

And Tony? Tony ended up a bridle horse at Cold Springs, one of the best bridle horses you’ve ever seen. In our circle that
means Tony is what is called “straight up in the bridle.” He’s a fine horse and a true pleasure for anyone to ride. He will live life to the fullest with Roland. In my world, any horseman who can bring a horse to that level is to be highly exalted.

I’ve been giving clinics for almost twenty years now, and I’ve seen some pretty odd things and worked with some pretty odd people. The bunch I had at a clinic near Buckeye, Arizona, was one of the strangest. Some of them were bikers, while the others didn’t appear to spend a whole lot of time in town. They looked like desert dwellers to me; I don’t know what else to call them. None of them looked like horse people.

By nine o’clock in the morning, while I was trying to help them work with their colts, they sat around dressed in black leather and drinking beer. My teaching isn’t real formal, but my clinics are normally taken a little more seriously than they were taking this one. They were all attentive, and they were eager enough, but it seemed as if what they mostly wanted to do was party.

Nonetheless, some of their horses were nice and gentle. One little two-year-old filly was a cupcake, but by the way she tiptoed around, I could tell that she was pretty scared. Not wild, but just scared. She hadn’t been handled a lot, so she scooted around the corral the way a lot of youngsters will do to avoid being with you.

When the filly’s owner identified herself, I saw what the little horse was bothered about. The owner was a woman in
her twenties, and if she didn’t outweigh the horse, she came close. I can often guess a person’s size just by looking at the size of the saddle on the horse, but in this case the two were nowhere close.

The woman walked over to the filly, whose eyes grew big as saucers. The stirrups were only about a foot and a half off the ground, but the woman couldn’t put her foot in without just about tipping the little horse over sideways.

“Why don’t you get up on the fence,” I suggested, “and I’ll see if I can teach the horse to pick you up from there.”

She couldn’t do it—she literally could not get up on the fence. Some of the spectators who saw her dilemma came over to help. They pushed while the woman pulled, until eventually she was perched precariously on the top rail.

I led the filly over and said, “I just want you to get her used to you. I want you to pet her. Rub her and reassure her and get her used to seeing you from up above. Then once she gets a little more comfortable, I want you to s-l-o-w-l-y slide down on her and get settled. Then I’ll lead you around, and we’ll take you for a little ride.”

The average person would understand my meaning: Take your time—I’ll let you know when to get on. Not so this gal. She either flew or fell off that top rail. Either way, she angled a leg over the top of the saddle, dove at that horse, and plopped down on her back.

The poor little filly was practically bowed under by this sudden added weight. But she stood there and looked up at me as if to ask, What in the world just landed on my back?

The woman looked terrified. “You’re going to be all right,” I told her. “It looks to me like you haven’t ridden too many colts, so you just rub on her and I’ll hang on to the lead rope and help you get through this.”

The woman stared at me. “Haven’t rode many colts? Hell, this is my first time on a horse.”

You can imagine my surprise. I figured I would have to pull a miracle out of an unmentionable place, but that little filly did the job for all of us. I got on my saddle horse and led her around. The filly stayed right underneath that woman, licking her lips with contentment and doing just fine.

Since everything was looking pretty good, I moved the filly up to a trot. My horse had a longer stride, and I wanted the filly to step out and catch up, but the minute the pace increased, the woman panicked. She bailed off and tried to dive for the fence, but her aim was off, and when she hit the ground, she rolled under her horse.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t back the horse, and I couldn’t lead her forward without the woman being stepped on. All I could see was a wreck ahead.

The filly knew full well that we were all in a bad spot. She just looked down, lifted a hind leg to step over the woman, then lifted the other hind leg and stepped over again. I couldn’t believe how high she lifted those legs. The filly never even touched the woman. Once she was clear, she walked on by with as happy an expression as I’ve ever seen on a horse.

The woman stood up, brushed herself off, looked at me, and said, “Well, that’s not too bad for the first ride, is it?”

What could I say? I came up with, “No, that’s not too bad for the first ride, but if it’s all right with you, maybe you could take a little break and I’ll have another rider get on and finish up.”

She agreed, relief filling her face. I felt the same way myself. Things worked out fine, and before the clinic was over, the lady was back on her filly and doing okay.

I’ve often told people who ask if there is a God: “Get around enough people with horses and see what happens. See how they survive in spite of all the things that they do, and you’ll become a believer!”

At another clinic, this one in Ellensburg, Washington, a student came with a colt that needed some preliminary work. In those days I charged an extra hundred dollars for horses that weren’t halterbroken. If they were real tough to work with, I’d give the owners a hand so they didn’t have to do all the work themselves.

This horse was wearing a halter when he got out of the trailer, but he was troubled. By the time the other students were saddled up, his owner still couldn’t get near him. The colt was pulling away and showing a lot of resistance at the end of the lead rope, the kind of behavior that generally doesn’t occur with a horse that has never been handled. Since he was wearing a halter, it was obvious that somebody had tried to start him and failed. He had cuts, nicks, and scars on his body, too.

I told the owner, “Take your halter off and borrow one of mine. Your lead rope’s so long, you’re going to get in
trouble with it. So put mine on him, and then just go up and pet him.”

He replied, “I can’t get to this horse. He’s going to strike.”

When I asked how he got the halter on, the owner lied, “Well, we didn’t have any problem at home.” It was obvious the guy was just biding his time until I took over; he wasn’t about to get close to that horse.

The colt really was dangerous, so we ran him into the round corral, and I roped him from my saddle horse. He would strike at my horse, but we stayed out of his way and after I worked with him quite a while, I roped a hind foot. Although the colt gave to the pressure of the rope, I knew that he would kick, so I had my horse hold him by a hind foot so that he couldn’t get his hind leg forward.

That’s how I saddled him. Once the cinch was tight, the colt bucked quite a bit. He’d had experience at arranging his body in a way that he could get the most leverage when he tried to get away. That’s how I could tell somebody had worked with him; he was looking for certain actions from me that he had experienced at the hands of somebody else. When I’d start to approach him, he’d position himself so that he could kick out with his hind legs or rear up and strike.

I felt really sorry for him, and I wanted him to get through this day just as easy as he could. I slipped my halter on him, let my rope drop off his hind foot, and told him, “You know, big fellow, I’m going to just get you rode the best way I can, and then put you out for the day.”

I was going to lead him by me just once or twice, get him to break over his hindquarters, and then I’d step up on him. But when I asked him to lead by, he evidently saw me do something that the people who had tortured him had done.

I’m afraid I had let my guard down. The colt reared up on his hind legs, struck out at me, and pawed me to the ground. He had me down between his front legs, and then he leaned down and started biting and chewing on me.

I rolled up in a ball and just tried not to move. A couple of friends were watching, and they told me later they were getting a little concerned. They said it looked as if I was getting into trouble, and they thought they were going to have to jump over the fence and drive that horse off me. At the time I remember looking their way and thinking, Just how bad does this have to get, fellas?

Anyway, I fared surprisingly well. Once up, I got the colt caught again and tried once more. I thought I’d gotten too far ahead of his shoulder the last time, so I stepped a little farther back and tried to lead him again, but I still hadn’t learned. The colt got the drop on me again, whirled away, and had me lined up for a kick.

At this point the best I could come up with was to move right into his tail so all he could do was kind of bump me. That’s a good thing to know: The closer you stand to a kicking horse, the less impact the kick will have on you.

I stepped in so the colt couldn’t really kick me, but he knocked me down again. His owners had turned this poor horse into a predator. He was no longer a herd animal—he
was the hunter, not the hunted. I told myself, “You know, Buck, keep this approach up, and there’s not going to be much left of you.”

I got back on my saddle horse, roped one of the colt’s hind feet again, and worked with him some more. Once the colt knew I had the upper hand and he couldn’t get to me, he just lay down on the ground—he “sulled up” with frustration the way a spoiled kid does when he lies down on the floor—and he wouldn’t move.