Free The Busted Thumb Horse Ranch by Paul Bagdon Page B

corral,
stopped, and then ran directly at us. “I hope the
fence is as stout as we think,” Arm said, “ ’cause
he ain’t gonna stop.”
    We pulled our legs to the outside. The horse
bashed into the fence with his chest, his head
turned aside, teeth clattering together. He was
squealing madly, crazily, forelegs now attacking
the air next to him. He’d lost control of his urine
in his wrath and a heavy, pungent reek of ammonia
rose up around him. The fence held. I reached
out and got my hand under one of the loops
around his neck and when he backed off, I brought
the rope in.
    “Maybe we’d best let him be for a couple of
days,” I said, “until he settles a little.”
    He rushed us again, flailing hell out of the
fence just below us with his front hooves, doing
his best to get his teeth into us.
    “ Sí. He will tire of this running an’ biting shit
before long.”
    We each took another swig of tequila.
    “You notice how the horse, he tracks? Back hoof
striking where front one was?”
    “Yeah, I did notice. An’ did you see how he
carried his head at the gallop? He’s one proud
sumbitch.”
    “ Sí. Is true. But, my pardner…” Arm stopped
midthought and lifted the bottle to his mouth.
    “What? What’s the problem?”
    Arm thought for a long moment. “Look,” hesaid,
and his words were quick and tumbled over
one another. “Theese goddamn horse, he weel
kill you, Jake. You think you can ride or break
any animal an’ you’re way wrong.”
    “Horseshit. I know when to let go, Arm. Like
that hellfire bitch I rode down in—where? Yuma?
She wanted to kill me an’ I rode her ’til she couldn’t
stand.”
    “I made money on that ride, Jake.”
    “For or against?”
    “For.”
    “You took a chance, Armando.”
    “Ever’thing we do is a chance, no? Hell, tha’s
the way we live. But it don’ mean you gotta get
killed by a crazy horse.”
    “I’ll take it slow an’ easy,” I said. “You worry
too much.”
    “Boolshit.” We each had a taste of the tequila.
“What say we ride into town, see Tiny, hire on
Teresa an’ Blanca?”
    “An’ a cold beer?”
    “You bet.”
    I coiled the rope and we walked to the barn to
saddle our horses. I hung the rope from a hook
near the big front doors. A man can’t tell when he’s
going to need a throwing rope in a big hurry—
particularly cattlemen, but the same thing applies
to horse traders and breeders.
    We took it easy on the way to Hulberton. The
temperature was more fall-like than we’d been
experiencing, and it felt good—the air was cool
and fresh.
    We heard the ringing of Tiny’s hammer againsthis anvil from way far out. It sounded a bit like a
bell.
    “That sound,” Arm said, “mus’ carry on forever,
no? To the moon an’ past it.”
    “Maybe so. You know how a gunshot sounds a
little fuzzy from far off? An anvil doesn’t do
that—the sound stays clear.”
    “Es verdad.”
    Tiny was just finishing shoeing a nice-looking
carriage mare. He nodded but didn’t speak because
he had a half dozen horseshoe nails in his
mouth, head pointing out. The horse stood well
as Tiny tapped the nails home. The six points protruded
a half inch above the top of the hoof and
Tiny snipped those off with a sharpened plierlike
tool. His final step was to flatten the metal
studs left behind on the hoof surface to snug the
shoe. He eased the mare’s foot to the floor and
straightened.
    “I hear-tell you boys got yourself a stud horse,”
Tiny said.
    “How the hell did you know that? We haven’t
told…”
    “Ain’t no secrets ’round here, boys. Fella by
the name of Les Auborn—a patent medicine
drummer—seen you with the horse between you
on ropes. Les, he said the horse was a good
looker.”
    “He’s that, okay,” I said. “What else he is we
don’t know yet.”
    “A man might get thirsty shoein’ a horse, no?”
Arm said.
    Tiny took off his muleskin apron and set itaside. He led the mare to a stall and closed her in.
He rubbed her snout