Faraway Horses (4 page)

So we sold what we had, the horses and the saddles and the rest of it, and we paid him off. We wound up with nothing, but the attorney got his money.

For the next several years, we would get birthday cards from Dad telling us that he was going to kill us when we turned eighteen. I don’t know why eighteen was a significant number, but he told us that when we got to be eighteen, we weren’t going to be around anymore. And he’d send us letters telling us that he’d been watching us from the ridgetop through his rifle scope, that he’d been watching our foster parents, too, and that he could take us all out any time he wanted.

Forrest took these threatening cards and letters to the sheriff, and finally the sheriff ran Dad out of the state. He told him that if he ever came back he’d put him in jail. These days, they’d probably react a little more strongly than they did then; they’d probably lock him up and throw away the key. As it was, Dad moved to Oregon, where he lived off his military pension and some other money from the power-line accident.

*     *     *

Several years later, after I’d gone to work as a cowboy for the Madison River Cattle Company, I wrote Dad a letter. I told him that I knew he was starting to get some age on him and that he might not live much longer. I wanted him to know that I still loved him because he was my father, no matter what had happened or what he had said and done to us. I didn’t want him to die feeling like I hated him.

In the letter he wrote back, he seemed relieved. He didn’t feel like I hated him, and I didn’t.

I wouldn’t say Dad spent the rest of his life a happy man. He lost all those years that he could have been with his boys, seeing us grow up and become men and then become husbands and fathers ourselves. But that was not his way.

That wasn’t the way Smokie felt either. After we left the courtroom, Smokie never spoke to Dad again. I tried to get him to talk to him, but it was not in Smokie’s personality. He would become curious at times over the years about what was going on with Dad, but he’d been hurt too much to make contact. And I think that was the right thing for Smokie. He and Dad might not have gotten along the second time around, either.

I
TRY TO GIVE THE HORSES
I work with a safe place to be and a sense of peace. Sometimes this means their just standing near me for a quiet moment. The feeling may not hold long because trust doesn’t just happen, but I know the horses feel the peacefulness. I felt it that night in the backyard when I was crammed into the barrel with my dog Duke. For a little while I was in a safe place for the first time since my mom died—a little cold, but safe.

I can’t help remembering this time spent with Duke when it’s time to wean our young colts. We wean them when they’re six months old, and no matter how many years I work with horses, I still feel sympathy for the youngsters. I know the terror that must well up in them when we separate them from their mothers, and I try to make being weaned as easy for them as I can.

The colts make a clean break from the mares. I like to take the colts out of earshot, so the mares don’t hear their
cries and become frantic. Mothers love their babies, and it’s hard on them, too.

The first few months of life are a very precious time for the foal and the mare. The mare’s instincts have evolved over thousands of years, and she knows more about her baby’s needs and comfort level than I do. My colts end up being comfortable with my presence and handling after I wean them.

The first few days of separation are a troubling time for these young horses. It’s therefore necessary that they have the chance to work things out for themselves. Quite often the colts take support from one another because we leave them together as a herd. To further help the process along, I always put a “baby-sitter” in with the newly weaned colts, usually an older retired gelding whose stability is reassuring to the little ones. This isn’t an idea I came up with on my own—people have been doing it for years, but because of what I went through as a kid, I know what it feels like to have my mother taken away. I understand the reassurance and comfort that can come from a stabilizing factor.

The colts get along well with the gelding. In the beginning he’s a calming influence. Later on he provides discipline within the group, which helps keeps delinquency to a minimum.

We leave the youngsters alone at first. They need to be with other weanlings and their “baby-sitter” without being disturbed. You’re not going to teach them a whole lot while they’re troubled and insecure. But if you give them time to settle themselves before you begin halterbreaking them, there
is a good chance these young horses won’t become herdbound or socially bankrupt. They’ll get from you what you are responsible for giving: guidance, teaching, and a safe place to be.

We begin working with the babies at the point when they are peaceful and beginning to be relaxed about not being nursed by their mothers. We give them the gift of time. This is something every baby deserves—horse or human. It’s the time when we start a lifelong relationship with the babies. We replace their mothers, and they place their lives in our hands. I view this as an honor and privilege as well as a responsibility.

The first order of business when I work with a young horse is to replace that awful void created by separation from his mother. She’s no longer there as a friend and, most important, as a leader. Leadership is what his mother had to offer. Hopefully, a young horse gets it from a good human, but, unfortunately, that’s where humans often fall short.

After a day or two, when the colts’ cries for their mothers begin to subside, we start halterbreaking them. We work the colts on the end of a halter rope, driving them around a round pen. We help them operate without being afraid, learning how to be led, or guided, by a human the same way their mothers led them. The colts don’t begin by viewing humans the same way they did their mothers, but in time they can if a human offers support and not just affection.

Did you ever wonder how a mare can get her colt to follow regardless of whether he’s hungry or not? She doesn’t own a halter or rope, and she doesn’t pull on him or otherwise force him to submit. Instead, she uses the herding
instinct in both herself and her colt. She gets behind him and nudges his hindquarters—a little on the right, a little on the left—and all with just a gentle touch of her nose. Once the colt’s feet are moving, she slips in front in order to “draw” his energy with her.

This technique is very useful in a variety of circumstances. You don’t have to pull or try to dominate. You can put pressure on without being domineeringly physical. Once you’ve created the energy, you can then draw it in the direction you want to go. Subtle actions can have great effects, and believe it or not, some of this herding instinct remains in us humans, too.

Young children have little control over what happens to them. However, becoming adults gives them an opportunity to put things together and become sure of themselves. Many of you probably had some sort of black mark on your life when you were a youngster. You may have been abused or abandoned, but if as an adult you use these experiences to justify some proclaimed inadequacies, then you’ve made a mistake and missed some opportunities.

Adults are given free choice. When you grow up, you can’t blame your inadequacies on your father for having been mean to you, for having whipped you, or on your mother for having been mean to you, or on anything else done by your aunt, or your uncle, or your grandparents. You have to take responsibility for what you are and where you’re headed.

Horses are different from humans. We have to take responsibility for horses simply because they’re always in our care. They can’t get along without us. They’re forced to live in our world. That’s why the rules have changed: an adult horse in our world is still our responsibility. This doubles the burden for us humans. A human must be responsible for himself and for his horse. And when you succeed in both of those areas, life will be pleasant for you as well as for everyone around you.

In all the years that I’ve been giving clinics, I’ve heard a lot of people talk about how their horses have been abused. After they’ve told me all the things that a horse does and doesn’t do for them, they’ll tell me how they’ve rescued him. Sometimes these people sound as if they’ve started making excuses for the inevitable failures they have already mapped out for themselves. It’s almost as if they feel that, having saved an abused horse, it’s all right for them to fail at their horse work because, in their own minds, at least, they’ve been Good Samaritans.

However, many of these horses haven’t been abused at all. They may have been neglected, or they may not have a lot of quality, or they may have lacked an adequate education, but they haven’t been abused.

When it comes to a horse that truly has been abused, there are some things you need to understand. You can’t cure what’s wrong with him by just being sympathetic. You can’t help him by just leaving him be and doing nothing.

That holds true for all abused creatures, as I found out about myself.

Some people think that the foster child program is always a bad situation. Well, let me tell you, it’s not. Some really good people out there have put a lot of children’s lives back together, with many happy endings.

After Mom was gone, our life with Dad got worse by the day. I’m sure if we’d been around another six months, one or both of us would have died, because Smokie was getting to the point where he wasn’t going to take it much longer. Every day on the way home from school, we’d walk along the creek bottom that wound through the willows about a mile from the house in Whitehall, and we’d wonder if we were going to be around to make the same walk the next day, or if we were going to die at the hands of our father. The action that Johnny France took turned out to be the turning point in our lives.

Forrest and Betsy Shirley lived on a ranch outside Norris, just down the road from Bozeman. In addition to having raised four kids of their own, they had also provided a home for seventeen foster boys. Some stayed just for a short time, others for longer periods. Johnny France had been the first, and Smokie and I were the last. After we left, they didn’t take in any more. I think they either figured they’d done a good job and weren’t going to do any better, or we soured them on the deal altogether.

When Emery Smith, the social worker, dropped Smokie and me off at the Shirleys, we were a little scared. We were
weary of dodging fists, belts, riding crops, and bowling trophies, and we weren’t sure what life had in store for us at this point.

Forrest had gone to Billings for a day or two, and only Betsy was at home. She was a tiny woman, but she was full of love, and she swept us into our new life. The first night we were there, everybody was watching TV in the living room. There was another foster kid named Joe, a cowboy named Royce who had been a foster kid and worked at the ranch now, and Betsy and some of her friends. The TV was blaring, Smokie and Joe were talking, and the adults were visiting. I was so exhausted I lay down on an old knotty pine bench and used a stack of Navajo blankets as a pillow. I looked over the side of the bench and found myself staring into the mouth of an old metal spittoon. All the visiting cowboys used it, and the most awful smell you could imagine filled my little corner of the room. I sat up, carefully pushed the spittoon toward Joe with the toe of my boot, and lay back down.

I closed my eyes and felt for the first time in a long time that I wasn’t going to be hurt. No matter how uncomfortable that little bench was, I felt at peace. No one was going to bother me. No one was going to stumble into my room drunk and holler at me, or make me get out of bed and sit at the dining room table in my underwear and listen to ranting and raving all night long. Spittoon and all, it was a very special night, and I carry it with me to this day.

The next morning, Smokie and I went down to help with chores at the barn. I just happened to be standing in the
parking area by the ranch house when Forrest pulled in. I’d been wondering all morning what this man would be like and how he would treat Smokie and me. He’d been told what we had gone through, and I wondered if he was going to be sympathetic or uncomfortable and not know what to say. Was he not going to acknowledge us, or was he going to be mean to us like other men had been in the past?

Forrest got out of his truck and said, “You must be Buck.”

I just nodded. I couldn’t get any words to come out. My little legs were shaking. I was all of four-eleven and weighed eighty-seven pounds soaking wet. Forrest was six-four and had hands as big as those of any man I’d ever seen. He was a little wrinkled and old looking, but he still looked very strong.

Forrest walked toward me, and then, as if he had forgotten something, he turned on his heel and went back to his truck. When he reached into the front seat, I felt like a horse who’d been whacked too many times. What’s he reaching for? I wondered.

It was a pair of buckskin gloves. Forrest tossed them to me and said, “You’re gonna need these.”

The gloves fit me perfectly. They had that wonderful smell of new leather and were as soft as the skin on a foal’s nose. I couldn’t look at Forrest. I just couldn’t seem to process this simple act of kindness. Looking down at those gloves, considering the offering, I felt like a colt, confused and uncertain.

Forrest pointed to an old ranch truck and told me to get in with him. The truck bed was loaded down with fencing tools. Later on, I found out that Forrest always kept it
loaded that way just in case he happened to have some company coming by for a free meal—he’d get a day’s work out of them first.

I crawled up into the front seat, and off we went to one of the far corners of the ranch. There Forrest showed me how to patch fence by stretching wire and driving staples. Fixing seventy-five-year-old barbed-wire fence turned out to be quite a job. About the time we’d get a wire tight—
ping!
—it would break ten feet away.

I was so proud of those gloves, it was kind of hard getting much work out of me. I didn’t want the barbs to tear them up. But work I did, and that afternoon in the pasture was a day that remains etched in my mind. It was a strangely comfortable time, filled with the smells of sage, lupine, and an occasional whiff of Forrest’s cigar.

We went out for hours that day and just fixed fence, stretched wire, and put in posts. Forrest never really said much to me about where I’d come from or what I’d been through, and I was so happy he didn’t. He just gave me something to do. He treated me as if I’d always been there, and I appreciated that.

I never realized at that age how wise he was, but I’m sure Forrest had put a lot of thought into his actions. We spent quite a few days together before he said much to me at all. And finally, around the time I was thinking, I wish he’d talk to me a little bit, he did just that. That’s where his influence really began with me.

I would give anything to still have that pair of buckskin gloves. I don’t know what ever happened to them, but I’ll
never forget them or what they represented. I could buy a hundred pairs right now and they wouldn’t mean a thing to me, not like that pair did.

Smokie and I worked hard for Forrest, and he appreciated our effort. Deep down he felt sorry for us because of what we had gone through, but he was never overly sympathetic, and he never treated us special. He asked for discipline, but he didn’t have to be physical to get it. And he insisted that we have a sense of direction about our roles on the ranch. We weren’t just hired hands; we were part of the family.

Smokie was with the Shirleys for only a couple of years. After he graduated from high school he moved on, but for the time we were there, we both felt safe. We felt as if there was a chance we were going to grow old, maybe even get to be normal kids. Smokie was a bit of an introvert then, very much to himself, very quiet, and he still is. I was, too, for a while, but once I got a little confidence, I became more social and learned how to adapt around people.

Once Smokie and I started living with the Shirleys, we were able to do all the things we never got to do before. Our dad was so worried about us getting hurt in sports and ruining our rope-trick careers, he wouldn’t let us do anything. Now we finally got to play basketball and compete in track. Both Smokie and I were pretty good in sports, but then there were only forty kids in the whole school, so being pretty good wasn’t all that tough.