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to boss them. Bear right down on them till they buckle under. But then there are these others. You cannot make them do. They’d just as soon break their neck than take up a notion that’s yours. With these few, you must study them. Figure out their natural inclination and take that as your way to go. Then find a way to let them think it was their idea.
    Usually, these few are more trouble than they’re worth. They’ll break a leg as soon as you’ve put in enough time to make them worthwhile. But I can’t help it. Fine is a weakness of mine. If it’s a stud, he’ll clean up just about any mare, no matter how rough, and if it’s a mare, then God help you.
    It’s always best to dampen down this edge a little. Cross one like this with another thicker, duller one in order to get yourself something with clean lines but some common sense to go along. And be careful about two like this coming together. Likely as not, there won’t be anybody who can ride what comes from that combination.
    Not to say they’ve all got to be rideable. I’ve found plenty of use for those I could never even throw a leg over. So long as I can build my fence high enough to get them from pasture to barn and back. In and out of the breeding stall when the time comes. I will put up with a lot to see that fineness springing up in my pastures. Some would just as soon shoot a horse they can’t go in a stall with, but I’m not that way. We all have our contributions to make and it is not always what we might think.
    Wash is one of these few. Most wouldn’t tolerate him. As hard as he tries to bury his quality, it flashes out often enough for me to see, no matter what the rest say. Anyplace else, he’d be dead in a minute and he knows it.
    Maybe it’s unwise of me to foster the very aspect in him that he rightly tries to hide. You’d think I’d want mine as manageable as possible. That I’d pick dull to go with dull. Dull and solid. But I just do not have it in me and God knows, there are enough like that already.
    I recognized this quality in Wash, no matter how blurred, because I remember Mena having had it. She carried that same look in her eye. Remaining somehow unto herself through it all and holding her knowing close.
    Much of this clarity was gone from her, and from Wash too, by the time I got them home from Thompson’s place, all beat to hell and back. I could’ve wrung those Thompson boys’ necks myself. But even now, I can still catch glimpses of Mena’s fineness in Wash. Makes me wish I’d seen his father. He must have been spectacular.
    I do put a good deal of thought into this. I plan it out and map it down. They know how I am about my horses but they have little idea how exacting my considerations are on this. You need a record to know where you stand.
    Of course, you can never be sure that you get exactly what you planned on, short of going there or having someone witness for you. But I think Wash knows me, how I am, and that there’s some sense to it. He doesn’t always agree with me and I let him get away with as much as is possible. But I must draw the line somewhere. We need to remain clear about whose hands are on the reins.
    I do try to leave him as much slack as I can. Like I said, he’s the kind who needs to think everything is his idea. So I tell him the list, and sometimes I’ll let him scotch or add a few, but we usually see eye to eye.
    Wash
    Wagon comes for me on a Friday, won’t none of the fellas meet my eye. All they do is look right straight down at the dirt. Stand round muttering like they know something. They act like they know but I know they wonder.
    Makes me grateful for times when I pass Pallas on the road. She knows her way round my mind so I need her not looking away from me. She’ll stand there steady as a post, hooked in the ground like my anchor, watching me ride by in the back of this wagon.
    Maybe it won’t be so bad this time is what I tell myself. Plenty worse ways to get cross this