Free Home Ranch by Ralph Moody

grabbed the horn, clamped my legs tight, and managed to stay with him. He started down the roadway in hard crowhops, then stretched his head out like a wild goose in flight, lowered his back, and turned on the steam. From far behind I heard Sid shout, “Yank that hackamore! Bust his nose!” But with Blueboy’s head stuck out the way it was, the nose band had slipped half way up to his eyes, and I had no more control of him than if he’d been a runaway railroad engine.
    The roadway ran straight across the valley for a quarter mile, then twisted up a steep hill to the east. At the first turn Blueboy left it and drove straight up the hill, trying to rake me off against scrub-oak clumps. I could have dived into one of them and got out with nothing more than a few scratches, but I knew that if I did I’d never be able to ride him again. I had to find some way to control him, and my chances were growing less with every second I waited.
    There was only one thing I could think of to do, and I did it. Suddenly letting the hackamore rope go slack, I snapped it, the way I’d have thrown a running noose. As the nose-band bounced forward across the tender cartilage, I made a quick turn of the rope-end around the saddle horn, kicked a foot high, and whanged my heel down on the slack rope.
    The jolt nearly threw me out of the saddle, but Blueboy’s nose came down as if a boulder had been dropped on it. Before he could raise it again, I’d hauled in the slack and taken another turn around the saddle horn. With his chin pulled tight against his chest, and with his breathing half cut off by the band across his nose, some of the fight went out of him. When Sid caught up to us, Blueboy and I were both trembling like aspens, but not for the same reason. He was madder than a wildcat in a trap, and I was as happy as if I’d just got him for a Christmas present.
    Sid jawed and rowed at me all the way back to the corral, telling me I was a fool for trying to ride Blueboy, that he’d kill me, and that I’d better turn him in with the horses being taken to the mountain ranch. Blueboy fought the tight hackamore and me all the way, side-jumping, lashing his tail, and rearing. But I was so proud of being able to handle him at all that I wouldn’t listen to Sid.
    When we were riding up the straight piece of road toward the corral, I saw Mr. Batchlett standing by the gate watching us. He just nodded to me as we rode up, and said, “Cool him out a bit before you leave him!” then walked away.
    By the time I’d led Blueboy around enough to cool him out, Zeb had a team of work horses hitched to a wagon and was waiting for me. Ned and Sid had already driven off to the mountains, but Zeb didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He was sprawled out on the wagon seat like a rag doll, and when I climbed up he shifted one leg just enough to make room for me. He didn’t make a sound, and I didn’t see him move the reins, but the team started off at a slow walk.
    â€œThat blue horse has sure got a mind of his own,” I said, just trying to make talk, but Zeb only nodded. He seemed to be looking off toward Pikes Peak, where the morning sun gleamed on the snowy summit as if it had been a diamond set in the necklace of white clouds that surrounded it.
    The wheel tracks twisted in and out of gulches, and the team plodded on, but the only move Zeb made was to keep his face turned toward Pikes Peak. I didn’t like sitting there like a frog on a log, so I asked Zeb if he liked the horses he’d picked, and if he didn’t think the grub at Batchlett’s was good. All the answer I got was a nod, so I began thinking of things I could do to make Blueboy into a good cow horse—and wondering why Hazel had tricked me into picking her father’s prize cutting horse. I was still thinking about it when the wheel ruts turned in between high canyon walls. Then I almost jumped off the seat. There