Free Wynne's War by Aaron Gwyn Page B

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.
    â€œCan you bring me that blanket?”
    Wheels nodded. “You want the saddle too?”
    â€œJust the blanket right now,” Russell said.
    One of the newer spectators cleared his throat.
    â€œYou going to ride her?” the man asked.
    â€œDepends,” 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.”
    â€œShe kicked Sergeant Boyle when they were bringing them into camp,” the man informed him.
    â€œYeah?” said Russell. “What was Sergeant Boyle doing?”
    â€œHe was behind her, trying to get her into the pen. He clapped his hands to kind of get her moving, and she kicked.”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œBlanket,” 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.
    â€œSee,” he said. “Blanket.”
    The horse craned her neck and stared at him. One ear rotated and then stood erect, like a watchdog’s.
    â€œYou’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