place you cant hardly get him to do somethin he knows is wrong. He'll
fight you over it. And if you mistreat him it just about kills him. A good horse has
justice in his heart. I've seen it.
You got a lot higher opinion of horses than I got, Oren said. I really dont have all that
much in the way of opinions where horses are concerned. When I was a kid I thought I knew
all there was to know about a horse. Where horses are concerned I've just got dumber and
dumber.
Oren smiled.
If a man really understood horses, John Grady said. If a man really understood horses he
could just about train one by lookin at it. There wouldnt be nothin to it. My way is a
long way from workin one over with a tracechain. But it's a long way from what's possible
too.
He stretched his legs out. He crossed the sprained foot over his boot.
You're right about one thing, he said. They're mostly ruint before they ever bring em out
here. They're ruined at the first saddle. Before that, even. The best horses are the ones
been around kids. Or maybe even just a wild horse in off the range that's never even seen
a man. He's got nothin to unlearn.
You might have a hard time gettin anyone to agree with you on that last one.
I know it.
You ever break a wild horse?
Yeah. You hardly ever train one though.
Why not?
People dont want em trained. They just want em broke. You got to train the owner.
Oren leaned and stubbed out his cigarette. I hear you, he said.
John Grady sat studying the smoke rising into the lampshade over the table. That probably
aint true what I said about the one that aint never seen a man. They need to see people.
They need to just see em around. Maybe what they need is to just think people are trees
until the trainer comes along.
IT WAS STILL LIGHT OUT, a gray light with the rain falling in the streets again and the
vendors huddled in the doorways looking out at the rain without expression. He stomped the
water from his boots and entered and crossed to the bar and took off his hat and laid it
on the barstool. There were no other customers. TWO whores lounging on a sofa watched him
without much interest. The barman poured his whiskey.
He described the girl to the barman but the barman only shrugged and shook his head.
Eres muy joven.
He shrugged again. He wiped the bar and leaned back and took a cigarette from his
shirtpocket and lit it. John Grady motioned for another whiskey and doled his coins onto
the counter. He took his hat and his glass over to the sofa and queried the whores but
they only tugged at his clothing and asked him to buy them a drink. He looked into their
faces. Who they might be behind the caked sizing and the rouge, the black greasepaint
lining their dark Indian eyes. They seemed alien and sad. Like madwomen dressed for an
outing. He looked at the neon deer hanging on the wall behind them and the garish
tapestries of plush, of foil and braid. He could hear the rain on the roof to the rear and
the steady small drip of water falling from the ceiling into puddles in the bloodred
carpeting. He drained his whiskey and set the glass on the low table and put on his hat.
He nodded to them and touched the brim of his hat to go.
Joven, said the oldest.
S’.
She looked furtively about but there was no one there to hear.
Ya no est‡, she said.
He asked where she had gone but they did not know. He asked if she would return but they
did not think so.
He touched his hat again. Gracias, he said.
çndale, said the whores.
At the corner a sturdy cabdriver in a blue suit of polished serge hailed him. He held an
antique umbrella, rare to see in that country. One of the panels between the ribs had been
replaced by a sheet of blue cellophane and under it the driver's face was blue. He asked
John Grady if he wanted to go see the girls and he said that he did.
They drove through the flooded and potholed streets. The driver was
fight you over it. And if you mistreat him it just about kills him. A good horse has
justice in his heart. I've seen it.
You got a lot higher opinion of horses than I got, Oren said. I really dont have all that
much in the way of opinions where horses are concerned. When I was a kid I thought I knew
all there was to know about a horse. Where horses are concerned I've just got dumber and
dumber.
Oren smiled.
If a man really understood horses, John Grady said. If a man really understood horses he
could just about train one by lookin at it. There wouldnt be nothin to it. My way is a
long way from workin one over with a tracechain. But it's a long way from what's possible
too.
He stretched his legs out. He crossed the sprained foot over his boot.
You're right about one thing, he said. They're mostly ruint before they ever bring em out
here. They're ruined at the first saddle. Before that, even. The best horses are the ones
been around kids. Or maybe even just a wild horse in off the range that's never even seen
a man. He's got nothin to unlearn.
You might have a hard time gettin anyone to agree with you on that last one.
I know it.
You ever break a wild horse?
Yeah. You hardly ever train one though.
Why not?
People dont want em trained. They just want em broke. You got to train the owner.
Oren leaned and stubbed out his cigarette. I hear you, he said.
John Grady sat studying the smoke rising into the lampshade over the table. That probably
aint true what I said about the one that aint never seen a man. They need to see people.
They need to just see em around. Maybe what they need is to just think people are trees
until the trainer comes along.
IT WAS STILL LIGHT OUT, a gray light with the rain falling in the streets again and the
vendors huddled in the doorways looking out at the rain without expression. He stomped the
water from his boots and entered and crossed to the bar and took off his hat and laid it
on the barstool. There were no other customers. TWO whores lounging on a sofa watched him
without much interest. The barman poured his whiskey.
He described the girl to the barman but the barman only shrugged and shook his head.
Eres muy joven.
He shrugged again. He wiped the bar and leaned back and took a cigarette from his
shirtpocket and lit it. John Grady motioned for another whiskey and doled his coins onto
the counter. He took his hat and his glass over to the sofa and queried the whores but
they only tugged at his clothing and asked him to buy them a drink. He looked into their
faces. Who they might be behind the caked sizing and the rouge, the black greasepaint
lining their dark Indian eyes. They seemed alien and sad. Like madwomen dressed for an
outing. He looked at the neon deer hanging on the wall behind them and the garish
tapestries of plush, of foil and braid. He could hear the rain on the roof to the rear and
the steady small drip of water falling from the ceiling into puddles in the bloodred
carpeting. He drained his whiskey and set the glass on the low table and put on his hat.
He nodded to them and touched the brim of his hat to go.
Joven, said the oldest.
S’.
She looked furtively about but there was no one there to hear.
Ya no est‡, she said.
He asked where she had gone but they did not know. He asked if she would return but they
did not think so.
He touched his hat again. Gracias, he said.
çndale, said the whores.
At the corner a sturdy cabdriver in a blue suit of polished serge hailed him. He held an
antique umbrella, rare to see in that country. One of the panels between the ribs had been
replaced by a sheet of blue cellophane and under it the driver's face was blue. He asked
John Grady if he wanted to go see the girls and he said that he did.
They drove through the flooded and potholed streets. The driver was
Similar Books
