Free The Busted Thumb Horse Ranch by Paul Bagdon

we’d
tucked into our rifle scabbards along with our
30.30s. We threw the branches away, drank, picked
up some dry limbs, refilled our canteens, and rode
back to the herd. We set up a quick camp and
started a fire. The mares wouldn’t like the smoke,
but they wouldn’t go anywhere without theirleader.
Me an’ Arm said we’d be damned if we
would go without coffee after a day like we’d had.
I emptied what was left in my flask into our cups.
There wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
We ate jerky, which was also better than
nothing, but not by much.
    “We gonna have to wrestle with that sumbitch
all over again mañana, ” Arm said. “He’s a tough
boy, okay. Couple times I was worried he would
pull my horse off his feet.”
    “We don’t have real far to take him,” I said.
    “An’ I suspect that he’s smart enough to settle
down when he sees he can’t win this round. Workin’
him in the corral ain’t goin’ to be a Sunday
school picnic, though.”
    “Ees a good thing we planted the snubbing
pole damn near to hell.”
    “Yep. He might bust me up, but he’s not about
to move that pole. An’ all I gotta do is get to
where I can handle and lead him—it’s not like I’m
breaking a saddle horse. I wouldn’t ride him even
if I could—not with that foot of his. The weight of
a rider would throw him off balance.”
    Armando’s response was a long, wet snore.
    We fought with that beast most of the next
morning. The weather had cooled that night and
there was a stiff and chilly breeze blowing, raising
yet more of a cloud of soil and sand around
us as we tried to move the stud forward.
    About midafternoon, the bay discovered that if
he took steps in the direction we wanted him to
go, the tension of the ropes around his neck
would be lessened. He was still shaking his head,
snorting, and slamming those teeth together—but
he was walking between our two horses. The
mares, somewhat confused, followed us, I guess
because most of them had followed the bay all
their lives and he was moving now, so it was natural
for them to plod along after him.
    There were a few mares that didn’t look bad, but
there didn’t seem to be a good chest or straight leg
and sloped pastern among them. Many had scars
from fights and more than a few were missing
ears. The scars stood out against their coats like
thick red worms, mostly near their withers and
neck. I looked them over for a good long time before
I shouted over to Arm, “I can’t see feedin’ this
herd. There ain’t anything here we’d breed to.”
    “Ees true,” Arm yelled back to me, “but if we
try to run them off now the stud, he go crazy—an’
the mares, too.”
    “We can break them up and run them after we
get the bay in the corral.”
    “Might be a couple worth keepin’.”
    “I guess we’ll see.”
    We covered ground in spite of the slow pace.
We picked up our packer and I tied him off on
my saddle horn. He’d apparently enjoyed his
vacation—all the grass was eaten right down to
the dirt and he looked good—might even have
put on a few pounds, given the fact that he had
no work to do.
    Every now an’ again, the stallion would try to
make a break, but Arm and I had gotten awful
handy at hauling him in between us. For fifteen
minutes after he’d attempted escape, the bay
would whinny and rear and strike, even do some
bucking, much like a kid having a tantrum.
    There was a full moon that night, and the stars
seemed close enough to the ground to be lanterns.
    “Arm,” I called, “what say we keep on rollin’?
We’ll make the ranch by midmorning tomorrow.”
    “ Bueno. You see, each step brings me closer to
the tequila in the cabinet.”
    I laughed. “I could use a snort or two my ownself.”
    My estimate of midmorning was overly optimistic,
but we pulled in to our ranch well before
dark.
    We’d built the corral we were going to use to
get a handle on stallions extra stout, and five feet
taller than the other corrals. There was a