Read Online The Busted Thumb Horse Ranch by Paul Bagdon - Free Book Online Page A

position, dropping his
head every so often to graze or drink, but as vigilant
as an ea gle seeking prey.
    “A drink would be nice, no?” Arm said.
    “It just so happens,” I said, “I was thinking the
same thing. An’ I can fix us up in short order.” I
walked back down the rise to our horses. I had a
metal flask I’d picked up in the mercantile tucked
in among my winter long johns an’ extra socks. It
didn’t hold much more than a pint, but it was
better’n nothing.”
    We spent the balance of the day sipping and
watching the horses. We made camp shortly before
dark, but didn’t dare to start a fire. A horse’s
vision is none too good, his sense of smell is excellent,
and smoke would drive them off. We ate
jerky and each had a can of peaches and turned
in. Sleep came quickly and easily to me. The more
I saw that blood bay in my mind, the better he
looked.
    The herd had moved down the valley during the
night, which we’d pretty much expected them to
do. They’d cleared the buffalo grass, grazing it
to the dirt, and had to continue on to find food.
    We left our packer on a long rope tied off to a
rock where the mustangs had been the day before.
He could scruff at what was left of the grass
and he could reach the water. Then, we lit out after
the herd.
    We didn’t attempt to be quiet about it. That
stud would hear and smell us pretty much no
matter what we did, since the breeze was now
blowing from our backs. After a half day we came
upon them. The stud was keeping the mares in a
tighter group and he nipped at the colts that decided
they’d rather play than jog along at mama’s
side. Each youngster who bought himself a nip
shrieked in pain and got back to the herd in a
hurry. The boss hoss was out ahead a short distance
in front of the mares, sweeping back and
forth, stopping only to stick his muzzle into the
air to see what news the wind would bring.
    “Lookit the set of his ears,” Arm said. “He’s
good an’ mad. He don’ like this bein’ chased shit.”
    “I noticed. He’s gonna be hard to take.”
    “We’d bes’ pick up sticks or something to whack
the sumbitch when he comes chargin’. Shaking
reins at him won’t make no difference.”
    “Sticks probably won’t, either, but you’re right.
Damn. We shoulda brought heavy quirts. A good
cut across the nostrils will stop any horse.”
    “Mos’ horses,” Armando corrected.
    We followed behind the herd for a couple of
hours. They weren’t moving fast but they were
moving steadily. The stud let them stop at a water
hole and drink, but shagged them out a few minutes
later. There were a couple of young desert
pines near the water; we each selected a whippy
branch, stripped it, and followed the herd.
    “I’m gettin’ some tired of eatin’ dust,” Arm said
early that afternoon.
    “Me, too,” I said, “but I figured we’d make our
move on the bay tomorrow.”
    “Why? It don’ make no sense, Jake. They’ll be
fresh in the morning. Why not get a handle on
that bay horse now an’ tie him good for the night?”
    I thought that over. Both Arm and I were fair-to-average
ropers—we’d worked cattle when we
couldn’t find anything we could steal. Our plan
was a simple one. We’d handle the horse the way
a rank bull is handled. We’d each get ropes
around his neck and allow him forty feet on either
side. When he charged one of us—and he
would charge—the other would haul him back.
Like most plans it sounded a whole lot easier
than it turned out to be.
    We made our move, each of us riding up one
side of the group of mares, loops ready. The baystopped
to face us, ears laid back tight to his skull,
his lips curled back over his teeth.
    The toughest part would be gettin’ our ropes
on him. Until we had him between he was free to
tear us and our horses into pieces. I was on the
right side of the herd and the stallion, Arm on
the left. We both began drifting toward the bay.
He was sharp enough to see what was coming
and decided to fight