Horse Lover Read Online Free PDF Page A

decided to capture and break some of the horses, but the fleet-footed animals proved too elusive and quick for him, so he decided to try to shoot one. The mustangers of that era would aim their gun at a specific spot on the horse’s neck. If they hit their target, they could stun and knock down the animal without killing him. Before the horse could recover his senses, they would throw a halter on him. It was a brutal way to capture mustangs and one that Congress eventually outlawed. Chico always had a scar on the top of his neck where the bullet creased him.
    Chico became my best friend almost as soon as I could walk. A pretty bay color with a star on his forehead, he was a small horse, too small for a cowboy, but just right for a child. Chico and I lived many adventures together while he stood patiently in the corral and let me clamber over him like a jungle gym. One day I would be the cowboy chasing and catching wild cattle to the amazement of the other cowboys. The next day I was an Indian stalking game and evading the cavalry. The fact that Chico came from a wild horse herd enamored me. When I was old enough to ride, Chico would go at a speed I was capable of handling and no faster. When I fell off and cried and grew angry with him, he would stand still and patiently wait for me to collect myself and get back on. He took care of me more hours than my mother did and at least as well.
    Chico and I were a team the day I became a real cowboy. World War II left my dad short of help, so he allowed me to join the roundup at Old Camp on the southern part of Lazy B. It was to be a long, hard day, just the kind of day for a five-year-old to make a hand. I don’t remember breakfast at 3:00 a.m. or the long bumpy ride in the pickup out to Robb’s Well where the horses awaited us, but I do recall the sweet, acrid smell of the horses, the squeak and creak of the leather saddles as the cowboys tossed them on the animals’ backs, the snorting and farting of the horses as the cowboys mounted. Because I wasn’t tall enough to get my foot in the stirrup, I had to lead Chico to the water trough to mount.
    We all set out, Chico and I riding side by side with the cowboys. Many times, I had heard them make fun of dudes, the wannabes who could never get cowboying quite right. I was determined not to be a dude, and this was the day to show I wasn’t one. After riding a couple of miles, the cowboys split into groups to search for cows in different parts of the range. The plan was for everyone to arrive at Old Camp by noon, cattle in front. I split off with Jim Brister and another cowboy, Ira, and started the cows heading down a wide canyon. After a bit, Jim instructed me to keep the herd moving, that he and Ira were going to work Lightning Canyon and push the cattle into Rock Tank Canyon, which connected with this main canyon a mile down. They would catch up with me in about an hour.
    What a big job! I sat straight in my saddle and beamed. Of course, a five-year-old has no idea how long an hour or how far a mile is. Nor does he realize that his mentors trusted the horse he rode to take care of him.
    The cattle knew water awaited them at Old Camp, so keeping them going downhill proved easy work. I’m sure within fifteen minutes I thought an hour had passed, but I kept doing my job. Pretty soon, though, I started getting thirsty and I had to pee. I couldn’t dismount because I needed help getting back in the saddle. I kept Chico and the cows going, determined not to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
    The cicadas started to buzz in the hot, dry air. They grew louder and louder until the whole world was buzzing. The buzzing crept into my head and strung itself between my ears. Certainly we had gone more than a mile and much longer than an hour. Thirst joined the buzzing. All I wanted was a drink of water and to pee. I wondered if this is what it was like to go crazy.
    I started to cry. I bent over Chico’s soft neck and let tears drip