Wynne's War (8 page)

“Yeah,” said Wheels. “There's a bunch of them. Four-by-fives. Doesn't look like they've even been used.”

“Let's start dragging them out,” Russell said.

Wheels looked over toward the stable.

“What,” he said, “—you want to build a round corral?”

“Round corral,” Russell said.

They spent the remaining daylight dragging the galvanized panels from the stable and leaning them against the wooden pen. Each of the panels weighed about fifteen pounds and were bound to each other by paracord in bundles of eight. At first they cut the cord and carried them out by twos, but then Wheels began to hug entire bundles and lug them out, and Russell followed suit. When they had all of them outside, they cut the cords and separated the panels and then began to link them to one another, lining up the connector tubes and dropping in the foot-long pin, moving to the next section and then the next. By dark, they'd connected three-quarters of the panels and had built a round corral next to the split-rail pen, about fifty meters in diameter. They stood there surveying their work and then they went down to the mess tent for supper.

 

He was up again before dawn, in the tack room sorting through leads and ropes—stirrups, bits, and bridles—negotiating the dark of the stable with a small flashlight between his teeth. He threw a saddle over his shoulder, picked up the stack of blankets and ropes, carried the equipment out to the round corral, and stacked it to one side. Then he went for Fella.

When Wheels came over to the corral half an hour later, Russell already had the filly tethered to the lead and was back to twirling the rope. The filly still turned counterclockwise, but she no longer quivered at the rope's touch and Russell had taken the fear out of her eyes. Wheels stood quietly, sipping his coffee, watching his friend move the horse several turns and then pet her, move the horse and pet her. He continued this until he'd swing the rope to brush her flank and she'd just stand there, blinking. Russell dropped the lead and began rubbing her all over, and when he took up the lead again, he'd changed directions and begun to work the other side, turning the horse to the right, clockwise this time, the horse fidgety again, as startled by the rope as though she'd never felt it.

By the time the sun had crested the eastern ridges, Russell had the filly where the twirling rope would only move her, never make her quiver or flinch. He rubbed her down again and spoke to her, and when he turned he saw one of the Green Berets from Wynne's team standing beside Wheels at the edge of the corral. He nodded to the man and the man nodded back, and then Russell looked over at Wheels.

“I need something red,” he told him. “I need a stick about yay long.” He held his palm a little higher than his head to indicate the length.

“Red?” said Wheels.

“Yeah.”

“That'll likely be a problem,” Wheels told him, but the man standing there spoke up.

“Can it be fabric?” he asked.

“It can be pretty much anything,” Russell said.

“I have a red shirt,” the man told him, his lips curling toward the left side of his face. He had a long brown beard like Billings, and like Billings his hair touched the collar of his jacket and he wore a ball cap to keep his bangs out of his eyes.

“You wouldn't mind me cutting it up?” asked Russell.

The man shook his head. “Give me a minute and I'll grab it.”

Russell unsnapped the lead from the horse's halter, brushed his hand along her jaw, and then walked over and climbed up and over one of the corral panels. He headed down to a small grove of willows that grew beside the creek on the north end of camp, selected a long limb about half an inch in diameter, removed his knife from his pocket, thumbed it open, and cut the branch from the trunk. He walked back toward the corral, stripping the smaller branches from the limb, whittling himself a seven-foot switch. The bearded soldier was back with the T-shirt, and Russell thanked the man and began to rip the shirt to shreds. The man said his name was Pike, and the three of them shook hands. When you spoke to him, he turned his head slightly and put his left ear forward, as though he might be deaf in the other. Russell cut a pennant-shaped strip of cloth from Pike's shirt, and splitting the narrower end of the switch, wedged the fabric into the stick. He cut another piece of the shirt and used it to secure the makeshift flag, then took the switch by its thicker end and popped it in the air. He swiped it back and forth several more times and, nodding, approached the corral.

He took his time with her. Anyone could see. How he'd talk to the filly and stop to rub his hand down her neck, how she'd gentle at his touch. He never seemed like he was in a hurry about any of it. He never seemed to get mad. If the horse did what he wanted her to do, he'd pet and rub on her, and if the horse didn't, he'd work her until she could do it. He was using the switch and flag now, jerking the red scrap of fabric back and forth until the horse began to circle away from it—counterclockwise again—touching the horse's flank with the end of the switch, just the slightest touch, holding the lead in his other hand. He'd bring her a full revolution and then he'd bring her another, and right when her ears began to twitch, he'd stop and pet the horse and tell her she was doing good. Then back to work with the flag, jerking it back and forth until she started stepping, petting her down afterward, taking the fear out of her, until the horse just stood while he moved the flag and he could touch and pet her with it. Then he'd swap the lead and switch to opposite hands and work the other side: everything you did on one side you had to do with the other.

When he turned back to look at Wheels and Pike, two more Green Berets were standing alongside them, arms crossed to their chests, watching. Russell walked over, leaned the switch against one of the corral panels, and approached the horse with just the lead.

He began by looping the rope around the filly's left front leg, taking the rope in both hands and running it along the inside of the heel and pastern, up past the chestnut and forearm, and then back down. The horse watched all of this as though curious. She leaned her head down and sniffed his jacket and then nuzzled his neck. Russell pushed her away very gently, swung the lead line over her back, and caught it under her barrel, then tightened the rope around her, right where the saddle's cinch would be, snugging the rope against her coat, then flipped the lead farther down the horse's loin to where the back cinch would tighten, all the way to her flank, then down her rear legs. At this the horse sprung suddenly forward, and she began to circle counterclockwise, faster than she'd done before. Russell allowed her to trot and then he pulled up on the lead and straightened her back out.

“Found your trouble spot, didn't you?” Wheels said.

“Yeah,” said Russell, and then went right back to it. He flipped the rope over her back, caught it underneath, worked down to her flank, and then once again down her hind legs. This time, when the filly began to move, he kept a hold on her with the loop of lead around her croup and barrel, the left hand still close to her nose where the line attached to her halter. He turned with her, one hand gripping the lead under her nose and the other gripping the loop he'd made at her flank, as though swinging the horse on the end of the rope as a father swings his child by the arms. He let her carry the rope, controlling her with his left hand at the halter, and they went round and round: once, twice, three times, a fourth. He began to whoa her, and she continued circling, and he whoaed her again and told her she was all right. When she came to a stop, she stood blowing with her neck craned back to watch him. He wasn't going to hurt her, but the horse didn't necessarily believe that and, like all creatures, only knew what she knew.

He worked the same technique again, then once more, then he changed directions and began to work the filly to the left, getting her soft, getting her to accept the rope against her flank and elbow, her tail swishing the entire time, agitated now, impatient. When he was done with this, he paid out the lead to its full length, walked back over, and picked up the switch and flag. He turned and, touching the flag to the horse's hindquarters, sent her forward, trotting around the outermost edge of the corral, circling it with him in the exact center, switching the flag behind the horse whenever she started to slow. Then he whoaed her and brought her to a halt and took a knee a few feet away from her, caught his breath, and allowed her to recompose herself.

After a few minutes, he looked over at Wheels.

“Can you bring me that blanket?”

Wheels nodded. “You want the saddle too?”

“Just the blanket right now,” Russell said.

One of the newer spectators cleared his throat.

“You going to ride her?” the man asked.

“Depends,” said Russell. “Want to see how she does with the blanket. I don't know that she's ever been saddled. She might not even take it.”

“She kicked Sergeant Boyle when they were bringing them into camp,” the man informed him.

“Yeah?” said Russell. “What was Sergeant Boyle doing?”

“He was behind her, trying to get her into the pen. He clapped his hands to kind of get her moving, and she kicked.”

“That'll happen,” Russell said.

The man nodded—as if to say it certainly did. There were four of them now, not counting Wheels. All bearded, all in need of a haircut, each with the exact same build: not the lean, athletic frames of most PJs and Rangers, but bodies like professional weightlifters—all neck and chest and shoulders.
Bulk for the sake of bulk,
Wheels might have said, but Wheels wasn't going to say it to their faces, and Russell figured if they wanted to carry that extra weight, it was their business.

Wheels climbed the corral panel and handed the blanket to Russell. It was hunter green with dark crimson stripes—thirty inches by thirty inches, made from acrylic. Russell had been taught never to use synthetic fibers on his horses, only leather and wool. He didn't know how the filly would respond, but he supposed it would only really matter if she was used to something else, and this horse wasn't used to much of anything, far as he could tell. He approached her with the lead in one hand and the blanket in the other. He let her sniff him again and then let her sniff the blanket. She recoiled slightly when her whiskers touched the fabric, but then she gave it another sniff and seemed not to mind.

“Blanket,” he told the horse. “Not going to hurt you.”

He brought it up and touched her neck with it. He ran it down her shoulder and rubbed it across her flank.

“See,” he said. “Blanket.”

The horse craned her neck and stared at him. One ear rotated and then stood erect, like a watchdog's.

“You're okay,” he said. “Don't be so damn spooky.”

He continued rubbing the blanket across the horse's flank and then over her croup, loin, and back, all the way up to her withers. She shivered at each of the small circular motions and then she shivered less and then she just stood there with her ears flicking slightly. Russell placed his hand on her hip and then crossed behind her and went around to her right side, where he started all over again. When he was finished he asked Wheels to bring him the saddle.

One of the Green Berets turned to another and said, “He's doing that to introduce it to the horse.”

“No shit,” the other man said.

Wheels grabbed the saddle by the horn and cantle, climbed the corral once more, and handed the saddle across to Russell. The blanket rested now over the filly's back, and Russell stepped beside his horse, swung the saddle up, and planted it atop the blanket. The horse just stood. Russell had half expected her not to accept the saddle, or not to accept it the first time, but the filly didn't seem troubled by the weight, maybe thirty-five, forty pounds. He let the cinch just hang for several minutes, unbuckled. He spoke to the filly and petted her down, left side and right, and when he was done, he stepped over and reached under the horse, took up the cinch, and ran it through the buckle. Then he stood back and eyed the horse.

“You doing okay?” he asked her.

The filly stood. Her right ear swatted once, twice. She gave her tail a brief swish.

“If you're going to do something crazy,” said Russell, “I'd as soon you did it now.”

But the horse didn't do anything, and after standing another minute, Russell bent down, tightened the cinch, waited for the horse to exhale, and then he buckled the cinch and stood.

“What now?” he heard one of the Green Berets ask.

Russell turned and stared at the row of men standing along the corral with boots propped against the bottom rung. It was turning into some kind of impromptu clinic, but Russell couldn't worry about any of that. He'd learned a long time ago not to try to impress people, particularly where horses were concerned. It was enough to worry about impressing the horse. Or impressing your intentions on the horse. That you wouldn't mistreat them. That'd you'd be firm and fair. Training aside, you were dealing with half-ton animals, and they were going to be who they were going to be. Russell gripped the saddle horn with one hand, put his left boot in the stirrup, lifted himself alongside the filly, and let her feel his weight. He reached down with his right hand and petted her neck.

“What do you think?” he asked her. “You feel like going around a few times?”

The horse was steady beneath him. Her ears relaxed and her tail hung straight down. He leaned across her back, straightening his body and backing his left boot partially out of the stirrup in case he'd need to slide off. He waited several moments and then he swung his right leg over, found the far-side stirrup, and lowered himself into the saddle. The filly pawed the dirt and gave a slight shake of her head. Then she settled again. Russell took up the reins, squeezed his thighs, and put the horse forward a few steps. Then a few more. He reached a hand down and petted her neck.