Fool’s Ride

There’s a good many things a cowpoke don’t volunteer to a new hand on the ranch, and that’s just how it was out at the old K-R. I’d signed on to help track down cattle in the hills east of the main spread, but you can bet there was more to it than cattle work.

Now, hindsight’s got a way of nudging a fella into makin’ him look back, so I should’ve seen right through the “hospitality” of a couple of the K-R’s old-timers. They offered to wrangle up a horse for me, an “old, gentle one,” with his reins dropped and ground tied, ready to follow. But I was fresh, too polite, and just green enough to tip my hat and thank ’em for their trouble, none the wiser to the bit of hell that’d be rolling my way soon enough.

They handed me an old sorrel with a proud Roman Nose—weathered enough to look like he’d been through more than a few sunrises, and maybe that’s why I trusted it. But right out the gate, that horse showed me he had notions about work, and they weren’t friendly ones.

First, he acted like he didn’t know what “move” meant; jus’ stubborned-up when I asked him to go. I had to huff and haul to get him to pick his way through a jumble of rocks and a patch of scrub pines like I was the one supposed to do the work.

Then, he gets a tickle for mischief and gives me a couple of crow-hops, just testing if I knew how to hold on. When that didn’t shake me, he tries a bolder trick—headed full steam toward a low-slung branch, hoping to knock me clear out of my saddle.

I didn’t come loose, though. And after a few hours of games, I reckon I started to sympathize. Maybe, he jus’ wasn’t too keen on me, and I didn’t know the first thing about the old cayuse either. So I dismount, take a bit of pity on the old boy, and let him breathe while we walk around, me talking low and soft, trying to make us pals.

By the time the sun was overhead, I figured we might’ve found some understanding. I was just about to climb back up and see if maybe he’d let go of his grudge. So, reins in the dirt, I turn to take care of business, trying to keep everything calm and routine.

Next thing I hear is a loud snicker. Before I even turn around, the critter bolts. One mighty jump backward, a quick spin, and off he goes, tail high and legs pumping like he’d been sprung from a trap, headed downhill and back to the ranch without a second thought, leaving me high, dry, and in the altogether.

I trailed him down six miles of trail, boots rubbing and grit in my teeth, all the way to the main spread. Sure enough, the fellas were there, hats tipped back and grinning wide, waiting to see the walk of shame they’d figured on.

Well, fool me once.