A Good Horse (2 page)

The hills that spread up and away were the purest gold this time of year, creased here and there by streambeds and dotted with oaks, rising to the hard, endless, cloudless blue of the sky. Over to the east, around the crown of Rory’s Peak, some of Mr. Jordan’s cattle lay under the trees, not stretched out like they were sleeping but heads up and thoughtful, chewing their cud. Mr. Jordan had a huge ranch, and he only put cows in this
field around this time of year, to save the grass from getting eaten down to the roots. The cows were beautiful, I thought, a special breed of blue Brahmas, with long ears and quiet expressions. They didn’t mind the heat, according to Daddy, not like Angus and even Herefords, who had been bred for cool weather. And they were really blue. Once in a while, I liked to ride one of the horses up the hill to the fence line, then get off and pet them through the wire. It was good for the horses to go up and down the hill, and also to get used to the cows, at least a little.

I opened the gate and walked through, making sure that Jack was right with me, neither lagging behind (but he never did that) nor pulling me forward. He was good. He stepped through, and when I twitched the rope, he swung around and dropped his head. I unbuckled the halter. He waited until I waved him off, and then, having been given permission, he trotted away, tail up, ears pricked, neck arched. The four mares in the mares’ corral looked up from their hay as if he was something to watch.

And he was.

Whatever there had been of the baby in Jack was gone now. His rough foal coat had shed out, leaving smooth, rich silk the color of dark chocolate, which shaded into mahogany around his nose and on his belly just in front of his stifle. The black of his legs ran above the knees, and his tail had started to grow out—it was no longer fluffy and brown but was beginning to be smooth and black. His mane was still sticking up, thin and soft, but his forelock had begun to grow—it even had a cowlick, right in the center, and every day when I brushed him, I liked to smooth it together between my fingers. It would
hold together for maybe a second, and then the two halves would spring apart again, one half falling toward his left eye and one half falling toward his right eye.

His eyes were big and black, “eyes you could knock off with a stick,” Daddy said, but he didn’t mean that in a bad way—he meant that Jack’s eyes were prominent and bright, always looking and always taking things in. Even at eight months old, Jack was quite a sight, or at least I thought so—long-legged still, but muscular and strong, and big. He trotted across the pen and then swept around and sped up and then crossed in front of me, his neck arched. Then he sprang off his hind legs. Everyone was quiet until Daddy said in his usual way, “Useless animal, if you ask me,” but he said it in a voice that showed that usefulness wasn’t everything—sheer gorgeousness was worth something, too. Maybe.

Jem Jarrow said, “Usefulness is in the eye of the beholder, I think.” He went into the center of the pen with his rope coiled in his right hand and stood there in his normal way, not doing anything, just watching the horse.

Then Jack realized that he was free. The first thing he did was rear up, with a little squeal, and stretch his forelegs upward. He stayed like that for what seemed like a long time, and then dropped and galloped across the pen, kicking up and squealing. In the other corner, he turned suddenly toward Jem and reared again, this time looking right at him—not stretching his forelegs out but curling them in, as if to say, Look at me! Look what I can do! But I would never hurt you!

He stood up like that, once again, for a long moment, and then actually took a step on his hind legs like a circus horse,
and Jem Jarrow laughed. Jack came down and trotted across the pen in front of us, snorting and full of himself. Then Jem lifted the coil of rope and turned his body. Jack went right to his circle at a fast trot. Jem kept the coil lifted, and Jack flicked his ear toward it, knowing that that meant for him to keep going. After four circuits, Jem lowered the coil and Jack slowed down. When Jem stepped back, Jack stepped under and spun inward, then headed in the other direction. Jem hardly had to lift his rope at all—Jack just kept trotting, arching his neck and sometimes tossing his head. It was a beautiful sight. I felt myself getting mesmerized. And then Jem called out, “He’s quick, all right, and proud. But you’ve done a good job, Miss Abby. He’s ready as can be for the next step.”

That was the best birthday present ever.

I said, “What’s the next step?”

Jem motioned to me to come to the middle of the pen. When I got there, we stood quietly. After a minute or two, Jack, who had been walking along the side of the pen, turned and walked toward us, his ears pricked. Jem stood quietly, the coil down. When Jack stopped in front of us, looking at us, Jem slipped the coil over his neck. Then we stood there for another few moments. Jack’s ears flicked back and forth. Jem slowly, and in a relaxed way, took a few steps along Jack’s left side, and then went around behind him, bringing the rope across below his tail, then he took a step and another step along his right side.

Jack was now wrapped in the rope. Jem exerted just a little pressure, Jack flicked his ears and then turned away from Jem and unwound himself. It seemed like no big deal. It seemed
like the natural thing to do. But it wasn’t. Lots of horses wouldn’t think to unwind themselves; they would panic and pull back or try to pull their legs out and maybe get tangled up. Unwinding himself was just what you wanted a horse to do. Jem did this again to the left, and then twice to the right, and then he had me hold the rope and do the winding. By the time I was done with two turns in each direction, Jack was hardly letting himself be wound—as soon as he felt the least pressure from the rope, he simply followed it, looking at me and waiting for the next thing.

The next thing was important, too. I left the pen, and Jem lassoed Jack’s forefoot. You can say he lassoed it, but really, he more or less offered a loop, Jack stepped into it, and Jem tightened the loop. Jack startled and then lifted his foot, but then he put it down. They stood there for a moment. Jem loosened the rope, and Jack stepped out of it. After that, Jem did the same thing with each foot. When he was doing the back feet, Jack was more worried—he kicked out and tried to jump away, but finally, he stood quietly. Mom said, “What’s he doing this for?”

Daddy said, “My guess, he wants the horse to learn to stop and stand still if it gets caught in something. Good idea, too. My cousin Cal had a mare who got caught in a loose strand of barbed wire when we were kids. By the time we found her, she’d cut herself to the bone trying to get free. Had to put her down. Cal cried for days.”

We all shook our heads.

I said, “We ought to teach all of them this.”

Daddy said, “We ought to.”

But it was the sort of “We ought to” that he said when I said, “Let’s go to Hawaii,” or “Let’s make the training pen round.” He meant it, but he also meant, Who has time for that? And in fact, who did? Including Jack and Black George, we had nine horses, which was a lot. We were both riding four horses every day, and even Mom was riding—Lincoln and Jefferson, two quiet horses who were good on the trail. Mom got on them each three times a week and rode them around the ranch at a walk. Daddy was going to sell them to someone as trail horses—maybe one of the resorts over by the coast. Daddy would say, “It’s okay if you fall off—they have to learn to stop and stand there if you do.”

Mom said, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Jem called me into the arena. He had put Jack’s halter on him again, the one with the long lead rope, and he showed me how to use that rope to give Jack a little winding and unwinding practice. He said, “Not all the time. But once in a while. We don’t want to work him like a two-year-old—he’s just a baby. But the sooner he learns a few things, the more they get to be second nature to him.”

“Like keeping quiet when he’s caught in something.”

“Just like that.”

Then he showed me how to snake the end of the rope around his ankles and forelegs, just quickly, just to get him used to it, so he wouldn’t flinch and wouldn’t try to get away. I did it a few times. Jack was alert, but he didn’t move. Jem said, “You got a rope of your own?”

“No.”

“Well, practice a little with your Daddy’s rope, and we can
try this sometime. I worked with a horse on the ranch a couple of years ago, just like this. ’Bout six months later, I had that fella in a pipe pen with some other horses. I fed the three of them and then went off to do some other work. When I came back an hour later, that one was lying down flat on his side, and he had his front ankle wedged under the pipe pen. He was just lying there. And he just lay there quietly until I managed to get his foot out of there, which took me ten minutes, anyway. Horse who’s caught has got to let himself be caught and be patient about it. It’s not second nature for them.”

The whole time, we were snaking the rope around under Jack’s feet, and he was standing there like it was nothing, just staring at Jem and then at me. Jem stopped and patted Jack in a long stroke down his neck. I couldn’t help myself, I kissed him on the nose.

Jem took a piece of chocolate cake away with him, and then, after he was gone, since it was still light and a nice day, I got on Black George and Daddy got on his favorite, one I had named Lester. We took them to the arena while Mom went in the house to cook something mysterious that was probably fried chicken, since that was my favorite.

Lester was a buckskin, really golden with a black mane and tail, about five years old, and a horse Daddy might have kept for himself if Daddy did that sort of thing, which I had never seen him do. Daddy had gotten Lester from a man up by Hollister, who was leaving town very suddenly and wasn’t saying why. Daddy guessed that he owed a lot of money to someone and he didn’t want Lester to have to be part of that payment. Daddy and Mom talked about this for a couple of nights—I could hear
them from my room, since the windows were open—and Mom didn’t like it, but Daddy said that the man had just gotten in over his head and however we felt about him walking away from his debts, it was not right for a good horse like Lester to have to pay the price, since once the bank got ahold of him, there was no telling where he would end up. So we got Lester. He had been with us for about three months, and I knew Daddy would sell him, but only, as he said, “If the right party comes along.”

Black George, in the meantime, was as good as gold and had been all summer, and we had him entered in the October show over on the coast. I was to ride in two classes, and Miss Slater was to help us with Black George for three classes “gratis,” which meant “for free.” Daddy said that “gratis” was all very well, but when she saw Black George jump, she would be quick as a bunny finding him a new owner, and she would get her commission, which was worth gratis any day.

I hadn’t seen Miss Slater, who taught English-style riding out at a big, fancy barn on the coast, for months, though we talked once in a while on the phone about the pony we’d sold to her client, which she named Gallant Man after a famous racehorse. The girl we’d sold the pony to, Melinda, had spent the summer down south, wherever they lived, maybe it was Hollywood, or maybe it was Brentwood—one of the woods—and then stayed there to go to school “because of the divorce.” I can’t say that I missed Melinda, but I can’t say that I didn’t, either. I
thought
about her and
wondered
about her. Missing someone is more about wanting to be with them. I missed Danny.

Black George wasn’t terribly black anymore—he had been standing out in the sunshine all summer, so across his back he was a little faded and red. But other than that, he was fine-looking and in excellent condition—all summer long, two days a week, I had ridden him up and down hills for at least an hour. It had been a little scary at first, because he was young and didn’t know how to go down a hill with a rider on him. He had to learn to bend his hocks and stifles and relax his back while keeping his head and neck balanced. I had to remember to ask him to do these things by sitting up straight with my heels down and my shoulders and head relaxed but square and my seat deep in the saddle. It was a little like sledding down a big hill in one of those saucer sleds—you sat deep and felt the horse going down just a little in front of you.

It was good for his muscles to go up hills—for that, you leaned forward and let him put his head down and climb, except that after a few weeks, Black George got pretty strong and made it clear to me that he wanted to trot or canter up, and I let him. It was fun. At any rate, as a result of this plus our other work, and also because he lived outside and ran around with the other geldings, he was muscular and fit. Daddy expected to get a lot of money for him, maybe five or six thousand dollars.

The show we were taking him to was the key. Daddy had picked out a set of classes in the local hunter division. The fences would be three feet. Three feet was easy as pie for Black George, and only about three inches taller than the fences I had jumped with the pony, while Black George was eight inches taller than the pony and had much longer legs. We had jumped
all sorts of things over the summer, and Black George had liked it—the stacked hay bales, the kitchen chairs set in a row, a length of picket fence, a length of picket fence with a tablecloth hanging over it, a row of Mom’s potted geraniums (which were pretty tall) sitting on a bench, the bench itself with another bench on top of it. About the only thing we hadn’t jumped was regular poles between two standards, the very thing that you were supposed to jump at a horse show. But Daddy and Miss Slater had made a plan, and we were to go over to the stable a week before the show and try some of those.

Now we walked, trotted, and cantered Lester and Black George around the arena, and I was reminded of lessons I had taken on Black George with Jem Jarrow. I made myself not be lazy and remember what it felt like to make him bend to the inside and balance himself around the turns, what it felt like to ask him to step under, what it felt like when he lifted his front end and relaxed his back. What it felt like was heaven. The really interesting part was that after he got used to it again (I had been lazy for what seemed like months), he was happier, too, and went along full of energy and quiet all at the same time.