Free The Soul of a Horse by Joe Camp

blanket.
    Gradually, the herd became curious and wandered closer, encouraged by the kindness in the young boy’s eyes. One cold winter morning, huddled in his blanket under the log, the boy awoke to the warm breath of horse. He slowly opened his eyes to see the nostrils of the foal, sniffing, puffing. He did not look the young horse in the eye as a predator would, but stayed focused on his nose, and he, too, puffed and sniffed a greeting. The foal stepped back, and the boy sat up, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. He turned his back to the young horse, his head down, his shoulders slumped in a show of friendly submission, saying, I am approachable, I am not a predator. He had learned this from observing the herd. It was the next day before the foal actually touched him, and only then did the boy reach out and rub the young horse on the nose, then on the forehead.
    Since that day, they had become very close. When the time came to be shunned from the herd or fight the stallion for dominance, the young colt chose the boy. They swam together across the sound to the mainland and were now far away, traveling through the wilderness more or less following a group of boats on what the boy called a river. The young Powhatan was excited about seeing new lands.
    The colt didn’t understand it all but was having a wonderful time. They would run like the wind through the trees and on the riverbanks, with nothing between the boy and the horse but the boy’s leather breechcloth. The colt could feel the boy’s every movement, every pressure, and the two had developed a language of what each movement and pressure meant. The colt and his boy were like one.
    At the moment, they were standing on a tall bluff, looking down on the boats traveling upriver. They could see their friend, a man as black as the colt’s mother. He wasn’t hard to pick out of the group of so many white men. The boy had called him York when the man had arranged for them to cross a big river on one of the boats. Along the journey, the boy and the colt had been helping the man hunt for food for his master, one of the leaders of the white men, and York had appreciated their help and was anxious to keep them tagging along.
    The boy swung himself up onto the colt’s back, clung tightly to his mane, touched his neck, and nudged him with his calf. Imperceptible requests to anyone who might be watching, but the blond colt knew exactly what to do. He spun on his hindquarters and trotted off through the woods. The colt could actually feel the thoughts of the young boy. It was a good partnership.

12
    Connection

    T he sun was low in the sky and the cool breeze from the ocean was at last making its way through the mountains and overcoming the heat of the day. Usually I would give Cash a bit of a massage, brush him down, and clean his feet at the very least before saddling up, but on this day I was thinking about the young Indian boy and the colt. The breeze felt good and I felt spontaneous. And I wanted to be close to my horse.
    I looped the lead line on his rope halter, like reins but with no bridle or bit, dragged out the mounting block, and climbed aboard his bare back, my creaky bones well beyond the days of merely “swinging up.” I settled in and he felt good. His muscles twitched under my rear and he glanced over his shoulder and gave me a funny look. He’s always giving me funny looks; some I can decipher, some not. He’s the most expressive horse I’ve ever met.
    I touched just the legs of my pants to his side. Just a touch, and he walked off.
    About halfway down to our little arena I realized I had never actually ridden down. And I remembered why. The trail is
very
steep. I had ridden up several times, but never down. Now I knew what the funny look was about when I climbed on.
Whoa! You’re out of pattern. Are you sure you want to do this?
    I was slipping and sliding toward his withers—
ouch!
—pushing off against his neck. He paused to make sure I