XXVIIWORDS
‘Yousee, I was lazy—no two ways about it—lazy, from the very beginning,’ Bart said during one of the night-talks. ‘I can see how Dad felt now. I didn’t know any better than to think he was against me in those days. I got the feeling I was wronged, and that’s bad. It’s bad to let that wronged feeling pile up in a kid’s chest, until there is no seeing it any other way. The thing that hurt me most was about that horse—old Rat-tail from the Cup Q.’
Elbert kept still with effort. He knew the story of the rat-tail from Bob Leadley’s telling, almost as well as Bart did, but the latter got to talking too rarely to be interrupted.
‘A bad name, that horse had, but he wasn’t really bad. A horse isn’t like a man; he isn’t like a dog. A horse is more like a woman—he goes by feeling, not by his head. A dog will dope a thing out; a mule will, but a horse feels his way. Why, that mare of yours—I’ll bet she doesn’t miss much that’s goin’ on, even if her back’s turned. You’re not foolin’ her a lot, even if you think you are. She’s cute as a woman—
‘The more a man knows about a horse, the more he respects him, the more careful he is,’Bart went on. ‘You never see a real hand yank his horse around or flourish none. You’re apt not to know a real ridin’ gent unless you’re one yourself. He works easy, and doesn’t attract the eye. You never see him starting a horse into a run as soon as he leaves the corral—unless there’s mighty pressin’ business, like that night we first got together. You don’t see him rowel or quirt, because a real hand doesn’t bring up a horse to need stimulants that way. And he isn’t botherin’ with one that does—not for long. Nine times out of ten a bad horse is man-spoiled, and a real hand doesn’t care to mix with other men’s botched jobs.’
Elbert couldn’t help but see Cal Monroid in all this—Cal, and the way he handled and sat old Chester. Bart and Cal were curiously alike in the one utterly cool and nerveless quality. Evidently it was in this quality, first of all, that their mastery over horses lay—no nerves to confuse the feelings of a mount.
‘That old gray had been raked and hooked so long that all he knew was to fight back. Everybody over at the rancho was afraid of him. Of course, the fellows didn’t say they were; they’re more afraid of each other finding out that they’re afraid, than they are of what they’re afraid of—’
‘I can see that,’ said Elbert.
A curious look came into Bart’s eyes—a traceof deep rest. ‘You see, a horse knows when a man’s afraid. He smells fear, or feels it. He gets afraid, too, or confused—loses what little head he’s got. He begins to look out through a sheet of blood, if you drive him deeper into fear. If pushed far, he goes crazy, and that’s what they call a bad horse. Sometimes they are ten times as strong as a horse in his right senses—just like a man-maniac—’
Elbert had so much to say it was hard to keep still.
‘You see, I wanted that old gray so badly for my own,’ Bart went on. ‘They told me how bad he was, but I couldn’t believe it. He let me get up to him—let me climb on his back. But when I got him back to Bismo, everybody remembered him bein’ an outlaw. Dad tried breakin’ him again—and they took him back to the Cup Q.’
Bart chuckled. One would think he had been telling some amusing boyhood experience. His voice was easy, almost careless—Bob Leadley all over again—not a sign for the listener that a deep misery of life was being discussed. Suddenly Elbert realized that it was not only with horses, but with men like Bob Leadley and his son—one had to trust his feelings, or else miss a lot. And with women—
‘But your father knew better afterward,’ Elbert finally said.
‘How’s that?’
‘He knew you had something on the rat-tail, he didn’t have—’
‘How’s that?’
‘He told me. Everybody in Bismo kept warning him that the gray would kill you. He got afraidfor you, but he knew better afterward. Your father came to understand what you meant about not wanting a ‘broke’ horse. He told me he thought about that one thing for years. It was from him and some things from Mort Cotton—that I got any idea about handling Mamie—’ Deep relief, Elbert knew as he halted a moment, the same that he had known that night, as they rode away from el cuartel in Arecibo. He was making it all clear at last. He got a queer feeling, as if Bob Leadley were resting easier, too.
‘One of the squarest men anywhere, your father,’ he went on. ‘He knew you had something on Rat-tail that he didn’t. He knew that “breaking” a horse is old stuff. He said he had belonged to the old school that thinks a horse is ruined if it ever gets its own way. One of the things he liked to say best was that there are a whole lot of good riders, but only once in a long while a good horseman—’
‘But he didn’t understand about Palto.’
‘Oh, yes, Bart. Even Mort Cotton did.’
‘They didn’t think I did right, did they?’
‘Yes,’ said Elbert.
‘Foolin’, aren’t you, amigo mio?’
‘Not on your life! He and Mort Cotton were crazy-tired, all shot to pieces—that night in Red Ante. Of course, Letchie Welton only had his idea of law. Why, your father thought it out for years, never got over it—his part—or rather, what he didn’t do. Kept saying at the last that a man can’t “wash his hands.”’
‘Took it hard?’
‘Rather, but he understood it all at the last. Mort Cotton did, too. It was Mort who said at the hearing back in Bismo—that the most merciful shot he ever heard fired was yours that night before you rode out of Red Ante.’
‘I’m sorry Dad took it so hard.... You see—you see, I couldn’t get Palto loose. He might have lived for days—until they got him to a place where they could string him up—’
The next day alone in the mountains, Elbert found that the old story of Red Ante was slipping out from him—that it didn’t hurt any more, that it would be difficult, and likely unnecessary, ever to talk about it again.