Being a flatlander from Illinois on a Colorado ranch I had a
lot to learn. One of my teachers was the
lead wrangler. He made his living with
horses, working the ranch in the summer, guiding hunts in the winter and
blacksmithing year round. My classrooms
were the tack room and the barn where he explained the different types of
halters, saddles and leads.
He knew every horse on the ranch and talked about each like
they were old friends. Doc, the oldest,
was still used for beginners. He would
fall asleep saddled at the rail waiting for his rider and his top speed was a
cha-cha-cha – walk two steps and trot three, walk two steps and trot three. General Patton was a large grey that was used
in the lead position on rides when the creek crossings were at high water. He just walked right in without hesitation
and the other horses would follow.
One of the wranglers was showing off his new horse
tied to the corral fence next to the barn. As we passed by I commented on how
beautiful it was. My horse loving
teacher took one look, shook his head, spit in the dirt (he was chewing
tobacco) and said, “That horse is loco, pure and simple. (spit) I told him not
to buy it and he went and did it anyway. (spit) There’s gonna be trouble you wait and see. (spit)”
I started to duck under the fence rail
to walk over and take a look but he caught my arm and said, “Don’t ever go near
that animal”. He said it with such forcefulness that I pulled back and decided to watch from a distance.
As if on cue, the new horse reared up on its’ hind legs
neighing and throwing back its’ head with so much force that he pulled down the
entire corral gate and part of the fence.
His owner looked stricken as he surveyed the damage. My instructor, who was the resident expert,
pushed back his hat, and said calmly, “(spit) I told you he was loco” and
strolled away.
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