a human being, they’re smart and loyal, and I believe they have souls, but their souls are pure, with no inclination for malice.”
“Holt ain’t never met a horse he didn’t like or one that didn’t like him back,” Lonnie Jim says, grinning ear to ear. “He’s got the gift, like they say, a horse whisperer. Hell, when he was no more than a tot we’d find him asleep or readin’ a book in the stables, just curled up to Ol’ Midnight, God rest him, or one of the other stallions. He weren’t never scared, not a lick, and them thoroughbreds is testy and high-strung, let me tell ya.”
“Buck? Is that like, an urban-legend-cowboy-name for a horse?” I ask, and Lonnie Jim winks at Holt and goes to meet the bus load of boys that has just parked next to the barn.
“Here, feel his coat,” Holt says, dragging me between him and his horse. He smooths my hand over the velvety caramel coat and says, “He’s a buck-skin, see how his coat feels like suede? So, no, not much originality in his name—Buck the buckskin, period.”
“Holt!” “Holt!” “Hey, Holt!” A gaggle of boys, most of them around ten or twelve years old, rush up but stop short and get quiet before they reach him.
“Good morning, dudes,” Holt says and the boys tilt their heads and roll their eyes. “Sorry, not dudes anymore, you young men are bona fide cowboys now that you remember the rules. What’s rule number one?”
“Never run up behind a horse or you’ll get the snot kicked out of you!” They all chime in.
“That’s right, slow and easy, don’t spook your horse, and always mount on his left side. Okay, Lonnie Jim’s got your horses saddled, go mount up and let’s rope some calves. Today we’re gonna show my girlfriend Scarlet how real cowboys ride and rope, she’s not from these parts.”
“Holt has a girlfriend, Holt has a girlfriend!” They echo as they traipse into the barn with Lonnie Jim.
What’s clear to me as Holt settles my boot into the stirrup and urges me to grab the saddle horn and throw my other leg over the horse, is that just as Buck is the best horse he’s ever known, Holt is a man of many unseen layers, and by far the best man I’ve ever known.
The boys and I follow Holt on horseback out into a field where a few metal barriers are set up to form a spacious makeshift roping pen. “Ease up on your reins, Scarlet,” He calls to me when I stop next to the metal fence and Sugar starts backing away. “You’re holding them too tight, she thinks you want her to back up. These are cutting horses, they’re trained to back away and hold the rope taut when a calf is cut from the herd and roped. It’s alright, Sugar’s just doing what she thinks you want her to do. Nudge her with your knees a little and she’ll move next to the fence and stand still so you can watch. There you go, now loosen the reins and don’t lean forward when she lowers her head to get a mouthful of grass. I don’t want you to fall head first over her neck and break that pretty neck of yours !”
“Um, okay,” I say and I can’t help but marvel at the way he moves as one with his horse. It’s instinctual, the way he barely shifts his body and Buck moves left or right, slowing down or breaking into a gallop as Holt rounds up the calves and moves them into the pen with the boys following right behind him.
He talks each boy through the steps of handling a length of rope that hangs over the saddle horn and they listen to him reverently. His horse certainly knows its job, stopping and starting, weeding a single calf from the herd as Holt loosens the rope coiled in his hand and with a single graceful movement it sails through the air and lands around the calf’s neck. He wraps the end he holds to the saddle horn, yanks a thinner coil free from a loop on the back of his saddle as he jumps down and binds the calf’s feet together faster than humanly possible. “That’s how it’s done gentlemen, now let your horse do the
“Holt ain’t never met a horse he didn’t like or one that didn’t like him back,” Lonnie Jim says, grinning ear to ear. “He’s got the gift, like they say, a horse whisperer. Hell, when he was no more than a tot we’d find him asleep or readin’ a book in the stables, just curled up to Ol’ Midnight, God rest him, or one of the other stallions. He weren’t never scared, not a lick, and them thoroughbreds is testy and high-strung, let me tell ya.”
“Buck? Is that like, an urban-legend-cowboy-name for a horse?” I ask, and Lonnie Jim winks at Holt and goes to meet the bus load of boys that has just parked next to the barn.
“Here, feel his coat,” Holt says, dragging me between him and his horse. He smooths my hand over the velvety caramel coat and says, “He’s a buck-skin, see how his coat feels like suede? So, no, not much originality in his name—Buck the buckskin, period.”
“Holt!” “Holt!” “Hey, Holt!” A gaggle of boys, most of them around ten or twelve years old, rush up but stop short and get quiet before they reach him.
“Good morning, dudes,” Holt says and the boys tilt their heads and roll their eyes. “Sorry, not dudes anymore, you young men are bona fide cowboys now that you remember the rules. What’s rule number one?”
“Never run up behind a horse or you’ll get the snot kicked out of you!” They all chime in.
“That’s right, slow and easy, don’t spook your horse, and always mount on his left side. Okay, Lonnie Jim’s got your horses saddled, go mount up and let’s rope some calves. Today we’re gonna show my girlfriend Scarlet how real cowboys ride and rope, she’s not from these parts.”
“Holt has a girlfriend, Holt has a girlfriend!” They echo as they traipse into the barn with Lonnie Jim.
What’s clear to me as Holt settles my boot into the stirrup and urges me to grab the saddle horn and throw my other leg over the horse, is that just as Buck is the best horse he’s ever known, Holt is a man of many unseen layers, and by far the best man I’ve ever known.
The boys and I follow Holt on horseback out into a field where a few metal barriers are set up to form a spacious makeshift roping pen. “Ease up on your reins, Scarlet,” He calls to me when I stop next to the metal fence and Sugar starts backing away. “You’re holding them too tight, she thinks you want her to back up. These are cutting horses, they’re trained to back away and hold the rope taut when a calf is cut from the herd and roped. It’s alright, Sugar’s just doing what she thinks you want her to do. Nudge her with your knees a little and she’ll move next to the fence and stand still so you can watch. There you go, now loosen the reins and don’t lean forward when she lowers her head to get a mouthful of grass. I don’t want you to fall head first over her neck and break that pretty neck of yours !”
“Um, okay,” I say and I can’t help but marvel at the way he moves as one with his horse. It’s instinctual, the way he barely shifts his body and Buck moves left or right, slowing down or breaking into a gallop as Holt rounds up the calves and moves them into the pen with the boys following right behind him.
He talks each boy through the steps of handling a length of rope that hangs over the saddle horn and they listen to him reverently. His horse certainly knows its job, stopping and starting, weeding a single calf from the herd as Holt loosens the rope coiled in his hand and with a single graceful movement it sails through the air and lands around the calf’s neck. He wraps the end he holds to the saddle horn, yanks a thinner coil free from a loop on the back of his saddle as he jumps down and binds the calf’s feet together faster than humanly possible. “That’s how it’s done gentlemen, now let your horse do the
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