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

right there rather than to attempt
to run. He reared, front hooves flailing,
snorting angrily.
    I caught Arm’s eye and nodded. We both
headed for our quarry at a gallop, swinging wide
loops.
    The stallion didn’t seem to know which of us to
fight. After a moment he made his decision and
charged me, running toward my galloping horse.
I swung in a skidding turn and made my throw
when the bay was ten feet or so from me. My roped
bounced off his side and dropped to the ground.
Armando did better. He dropped a loop over the
stud’s head and cranked his horseback the way
he’d come to break the stallion’s charge. He was a
little late. My horse lost a good patch of coat and
flesh from his hindquarter.
    The stud hit the end of Arm’s rope and was
flipped onto his back and side, but was on his feet
in the smallest part of a second. I’d been scrambling
to hold my horse steady and get my rope
back. I came up from behind the bay, who was
concentrating on Armando, and made my second
throw. This time I snared him and cut sharply
back, dragging him out of his charge at Arm.
    Both Arm and I hustled to the ends of ourropes.
It may have been a mistake but we’d both
tied down what’s called “hard an’ fast”—meaning
we’d secured the ends of our ropes to our saddle
horns. In ranch work a cowhand’ll take a couple
of wraps around his saddle horn, but wants
the rope to be free in case of some major blowup.
    The stud was confused and madder than a
rogue bull being threatened. We’d put a choking
cloud of dust and grit in the air during our battle
and my eyes were watering and at times I could
barely see to the end of my rope.
    We wanted to avoid the stud going down. If he
did he could roll against the ropes and tangle up
a leg or two, ending up with at least one broken
leg. We fought back and forth for what seemed
like forever but was actually maybe an hour or
so. All three horses were dripping sweat, and so
were Arm and I. All of us were coughing from
the cloud we’d raised.
    When I was dragging the stud my way, Arm
got a loop around his rear feet and pulled back
against me and my horse, leaving us with a
crazed stallion stretched out between a pair of
fatigued men and horses. It was a real good throw
by Arm. He’d been a heeler on a couple of ranches
and always carried two ropes. A heeler is the guy
who gets a loop on the back legs of a calf in conjunction
with a header, who ropes the front end,
so that the calf can be branded right where he’s
stretched between the two ropers.
    Trussing that bay horse up so he couldn’t go
anywhere was a job and a half. Our horses stood,
holding the ropes tight, but that stud’s head was
mostly free and he snapped at us so violently thatwhen
his teeth crashed together, they sounding
like a sprung bear trap. Arm got a short length of
rope over the animal’s snout and took a few wraps
before tying it, eliminating the biting problem.
Nevertheless the horse used his head and muzzle
as a battering ram. A direct hit would break bones
and shatter ribs.
    I got rope around his front legs, secured it, and
tied it off against the rope holding his rear legs
together. We checked all the knots and ropes
carefully—we didn’t want to have to battle this
ol’ boy again. When we were positive he could
barely move, we went to our horses and freed the
ropes from the saddle horns.
    The mares, who’d stood around in a cluster,
wide-eyed, watching the battle, seemed to lose
interest once their leader was down. They grazed
on what little grass there was, shagging flies with
their tails, just as they normally would. The
youngsters continued their games as if nothing
out of the ordinary had transpired. Every so often
the stallion would let go a loud and angry
whinny and the heads of the others would turn
to him. When nothing else happened, they turned
away once again.
    Arm and I rode back to the water hole we’d
crossed earlier and let our horses drink. Neither
of us had used the branches we cut, which