"That's a pretty good horse you're riding," McCarthy ventured, the first words out of either rider's mouth since leaving camp a quarter of an hour ago.

Juaquin ruminated on the comment for a hundred yards or so. "Si. He is a good one. But that caballo you are riding, my friend, that is a horse," he finally replied.

"Oh, he'll do. Sure enough the best in my string. But I've watched that dun you're aboard all the way up the trail and I don't think this sorry roan compares," McCarthy countered.

For three months and more, the two had helped push a herd up out of Texas but this morning's exchange represented more conversation than they'd shared in all that time. Each cowboy's days and his piece of the nights were spent riding herd and, outside of cussing cattle, the work offered little opportunity for talk. Evenings around the fire, each man, by nature, kept his own counsel while other hands swapped stories in the nightly lying contest. Now, the herd was bedded down a few miles outside Ellsworth, waiting for a train. By lot, this was Juaquin's and McCarthy's day to pursue a little recreation in town. The sun had yet to make an appearance above the horizon. Such days were rare, and the pair intended to not waste a minute of it.

"Shoot," McCarthy continued. "This pony pitches every time I climb aboard, and has tried to pile me since the day I met him."

Each man's thoughts drifted 700 miles south. The Crazy Heart Ranch spreads over a sizable chunk of the Texas plains southeast of San Antonio. Spring roundup starts tomorrow, the result of which will be a herd of market steers to be trailed north. Working cattle was fine with McCarthy, one of the dozen or so hands hired on by the outfit, but this day was more to his liking. The horse herd had been run in, and today the boss would pick out a string of maybe a dozen horses for each cowboy to ride on the gather and as a remuda for the drive. Getting on horses was why McCarthy was a cowboy. He relished the thought of forking a string of unfamiliar mounts, getting to know them during the roundup, and spending long days in the saddle on the trail.

He watched the wrangler drop a loop around the neck of an ordinary-looking roan horse, and stepped up when the boss called his name.

"McCarthy!" he hollered. "This one's yours. See if you can get him saddled."

Most of the horses were green broke they'd been ridden enough not to be strangers to the saddle, but were far from what you could call trained for cow work or even riding. Noting how the roan trembled, McCarthy figured he could be trouble. Nonetheless, he slid the headstall over the horse's head, wedged the curb bit between its teeth, and put the blanket and saddle in place as the animal sidestepped away from him. Giving the cinch an extra tug, he tied off the latigo, picked up his reins, grabbed the left ear of the quivering horse, and swung into the saddle. McCarthy found his right stirrup, released the ear, and squirmed into the lowest seat he could find. Much to his surprise, the horse didn't explode. The roan just stood there, all atremble, front legs stiff and hind legs in a slight squat.

"Well hell," he thought. "Here goes nothing."

McCarthy touched rowels to the horse's belly. The result, those in attendance would later say, was the stuff of legend. The horse leapt into the air, swapped ends, and landed stiff-legged with bone-crunching, teeth-rattling force. Almost before he had time to feel the impact, McCarthy was airborne again, the result of a spring-loaded skyward lunge of the horse's front end, followed by a high kick that put his hind legs well over his head. Shaken and surprised at the violence of the roan's attack, McCarthy was still aboard, but barely. He weathered the next few jumps and found his balance, but knew he was far from having this horse rode. The animal knew all the tricks. He sunfished, dropped shoulders, walked on his front feet, sucked back, jumped one direction and kicked the other, twisted and spun, anything and everything in the equine repertoire. But he couldn't unseat the determined McCarthy.

The rider never raked or quirted the horse, partly because the roan needed no encouragement to work out the kinks but mostly because it wasn't McCarthy's way. He had never believed that antagonizing horses helped in the long run.

After what seemed to McCarthy to be about five minutes less than forever, the horse finally lined out into a lope. The pair of them, breathing hard, made a wide circle across the plain; the man, for now, still in the saddle and in control.

"Man, that was some bronc ride," Juaquin said, admiration in his voice.

"Yeah, I guess I lucked out that time. You'd think after all that pitching, one or the other of us would have learned something, though," replied McCarthy. "If I was any kind of cowboy, I'd have realized right then that this jugheaded roan would never make much of a mount. And if he was any kind of a horse, he'd have realized he wasn't going to buck me off and would have quit trying."

"Oh, my friend, the trail is at its end. The time for tall tales is over."

"Why, Juaquin, whatever could you mean by that?"

"I have seen many caballeros, and you are one of the best. I think you know that. I think, too, that your horse knows it."

"So?" McCarthy asked.

"So, you should save your lies for the campfire, and confess that the bucking is a sign of your horse's spirit. He wants to make sure you are awake when you ride him, so the fine horseman will appreciate the fine horse."

"Juaquin, mi amigo, you've gone loco. Now, that horse you're aboard compared to him, this one I'm on can't tell a steer from a tree stump."

"It is true, this one understands the cattle. I think maybe it is because he is as stupid as they are."

"Be that as it may," McCarthy said, "if it wasn't for you and that little dun horse this whole outfit would still be sorting steers at the Crazy Heart."

Once again, their thoughts turned back down the trail.

"Juaquin!" the boss shouted as the wrangler led the dun forward. "Try to teach this one which end of a cow to chase!"

The horse didn't look like much, even among this herd of scrubs. Maybe 13 hands high on his tiptoes, and light enough that Juaquin figured it would be as easy for him to carry the horse as the horse to carry him. He was a claybank-colored dun, roman-nosed and paddle-footed. His ears were bigger than average and a bit floppy, tipped by fuzzy tufts of black hair. But it soon became evident to Juaquin that what the little dun lost in looks he more than made up for in cow sense. He had a long, easy stride riding circle and ate up the miles with unflagging energy. Almost automatically, he headed into the thorny clumps of brush where cattle hide, knowing where to look better, even, than the cowboy on his back. Let a calf or mossy-horned steer or ornery cow cut and run and the dun was always a step ahead, turning them back into the herd without effort.

When it came time to road brand the steers, there wasn't a horse on the outfit that could keep up with the dun. He'd slide quietly into the herd, ease a critter to the fringes then cut it out and move it toward the desired bunch, pivoting quick as a cat to block its path should it try to turn back. His every move was so precise it seemed effortless. Juaquin proved to be a poet with his reata, due to the combination of his skills and the ability of the little horse to put him in perfect position for the toss, whether a horn or heel shot.

Those days on the drive when Juaquin rode the dun were pure pleasure. The other drovers could only watch the pair in wonder. The horse and cowboy seemed to always know what the cattle were thinking before they knew it themselves. Trouble was avoided more often than not because Juaquin and the horse were there to prevent it. The dun was tireless, and as eager to be under the saddle and working the herd as McCarthy's roan was to buck. And, much as McCarthy was a born caballero, Juaquin was a natural vaquero.

"Yep. That horse under you ain't much to look at, but he's damn sure good one."

"You are right about one thing, friend," Juaquin replied. "He is not much to look at. If I could choose a name for him, I would choose 'Tequila' I think."

"And why would that be?"

"Because looking at this horse is like taking a drink it burns all the way down."

McCarthy, stifling laughter, offered, "Surely you'd agree, though, that your ugly dun could outrun any horse in the cavvy. I'd bet a month's pay that you'd even outrun that big fancy eastern-bred stud horse in the boss's string."

"I think not. I think that horse runs faster for sure, and maybe a couple of others. Your roan, too, will beat us. That is what I think."

"Well now I know you're plumb loco, Juaquin! This sorry bag of bones might out-buck yours, but he couldn't keep up on the run on his best day."

"Ah, but I know different, McCarthy. Have you forgotten the day we all raced for our lives?"

McCarthy knew well the incident of which Juaquin spoke. The herd was at the crossing of the Canadian River in Indian Territory. With a storm on the horizon, the boss wanted to be on the opposite bank before rain swelled the stream and caused a delay. It took a lot of whooping and hollering, but the crew got the animals across by mid-afternoon and bedded them down to wait out the storm. The boss didn't expect that the steers, tired from the crossing, would stampede, especially in daylight. But with clouds rolling in and lightning flashing, he opted to keep every hand horseback and take no chances.

It's a funny thing about a stampede. One second the herd is lying quiet and the next they're on the run. Without communication any human ear can detect, they rise as one and take flight. And the only sound in a stampede is rumbling hooves, rattling hocks, and clattering horns; not a beller or bawl is heard. The stampede at the Canadian was true to form. Quick as a lightning bolt, every cowboy was on the run, racing for the front of the herd. The only way to stop a stampede is to turn the leaders, and keep turning the herd back on itself until the cattle mill. It's a dangerous race. A false step, a wash, a prairie dog hole, a tangle of brush, a spot of slippery mud all this and more can upset a horse; the result of which is almost certain death for horse and rider since the stampeding cattle, running blind, pound everything in their path into the ground.

Juaquin watched as McCarthy, aboard his usually skittish roan horse, outpaced everything on four feet to gain the lead. His pressure to turn the herd slowed things just enough to allow other riders on fast horses including Juaquin himself to reach the fore and get them turned.

The stampede was over sooner than most. Neither man nor beast was killed or unaccounted for. And the outfit's esteem for McCarthy's competence in the saddle and the speed and agility of his roan bronc climbed a notch or two.

"I saw how your horse runs, my friend. We all saw," Juaquin continued. "You left my little dun and every other horse in the dust."

"Oh, that was nothing but luck. I just happened to be practically in front of the herd when the excitement started. Besides, you were stuck over there on the side closest to the river."

"Que?"

"Well, you know, Juaquin! All those little washes and arroyos leading down to the bottoms made for a rougher ride. More dangerous, too. That dun picked his way through there like a night horse, only twice as fast. If my roan hadn't of been on smoother ground, you'd have run circles around us."

"I do not think so, my friend. This poor little crooked-legged horse can barely walk, let alone keep up with your roan."

"You really think so?"

"That is what I think."

"Hell, this sorry excuse for a horse is as likely to light into bucking as look at a man."

"Perhaps what you say is true, McCarthy. But I believe your fine caballo could cover the country faster while bucking than my dirt-colored, big-eared pony can at the run."

The cowboys rode on in silence for a time. Eventually, a grin spread across McCarthy's face and he burst out laughing. Juaquin looked at McCarthy. McCarthy looked at Juaquin. Without a word, each rider spurred up his mount and the race on the road to Ellsworth was on.

*~*~*~*~*

Copyright © 2000 Rod Miller. All rights reserved.