sense tension in your hands right through the reins or a lead rope.
So what I needed to communicate to the buckskin was that being led out to the pasture would be a pleasurable and unimportant event. You would never want him to think that this was a big deal to you in any wayâthat would equal tension in him, which, in a horse like this, could lead straight to explosions.
Trying to keep all this at the front of my mind, I smoothly slid back the bolt and, taking a firm grasp of the rope under his chin, with the rest looped neatly in my other hand, I led him from the stall. Not dragging, not allowing him to get ahead of me, but also not looking at him, I asked him to walk calmly beside me down the wide cement aisle toward the enticing blue-and-yellow square of the outdoors visible at the other end.
The moment we stepped out of the stall, I felt his body tense. He raised his head and sniffed the sweet fresh air. His hooves clopped a little faster behind me. I led him across the dusty, bare spot in front of the stable and across to the pasture gate. We paused at the water trough, where someone had left the hose still running. The buckskin froze, jerking his head up and snorting suddenly.
My hand tightened on the lead rope and I instinctively looked toward the trough, expecting to see a snake or a lizard near the edge. But there was only the clean galvanized steel and the clear water flowing from the hose. âWhat is it, boy?â I stepped closer to him, trying to calm him with the nearness of my body. The horseâs eyes were wide, the whites visible. His nostrils flared, showing the edge of pink deep inside. His gaze was fixed on the trough.
âIs it the water?â I said softly. I tried to lead him toward the pasture gate. He would walk with me, but wouldnât allow his body near the trough, so he walked with his head turned as if the trough and he were opposing magnets. I led him through the gate and once more tried to lead him up to the trough. Was it the hose? The trough itself ? Holding the lead rope with one hand, I quickly turned off the water at the spigot and shoved the hose away with one foot. Now the surface of the water was no longer burbling and bubbling.
The buckskin relaxed, as if someone had turned off a switch, and lowered his head to the trough. He sucked up big mouthfuls of water with long slurping noises. I unclipped the lead rope and stroked his mane absently as he drank. It was the hose, thenâmaybe the way it made the water look? It couldnât be the hose itself, I decided, as the buckskin finished drinking and raised his head. It was lying right by my feet, and he was paying no attention to it. If he were afraid of the hose, like he would be if someone had beaten him with one, he still wouldnât want to come near it. It must have been the way the hose made the surface of the water burble and bubble. Or the noise, perhaps.
The buckskin raised his head from the water and turned his neck, looking across the pasture at the horizon. The other horses were just visible as specks, grazing on the vast plain of grass. I stepped back, watching, entranced. The warm wind lifted the buckskinâs rough black mane, twisting his forelock off his forehead. He raised his nose and let out a little whinny. The wind carried the sound to the other horses, and faintly an answering nicker came floating back. The horse trotted toward the sound, breaking into a long, easy canter. His feet beat the ground rhythmically, and it seemed impossible that he would ever stop. He should be called Magic, I thought as I closed and latched the gate. He looked like magic when he ran.
ChapterSix
Sweaty and dusty after the chores, I pushed open the screen door to the bunkhouse and hurried toward the kitchen for a drink of water. My mouth was so dry, it felt lined with flannel. The doorway to the kitchen was a brightly lit square in the dimness of the main room, and the sound of voices and clattering dishes
So what I needed to communicate to the buckskin was that being led out to the pasture would be a pleasurable and unimportant event. You would never want him to think that this was a big deal to you in any wayâthat would equal tension in him, which, in a horse like this, could lead straight to explosions.
Trying to keep all this at the front of my mind, I smoothly slid back the bolt and, taking a firm grasp of the rope under his chin, with the rest looped neatly in my other hand, I led him from the stall. Not dragging, not allowing him to get ahead of me, but also not looking at him, I asked him to walk calmly beside me down the wide cement aisle toward the enticing blue-and-yellow square of the outdoors visible at the other end.
The moment we stepped out of the stall, I felt his body tense. He raised his head and sniffed the sweet fresh air. His hooves clopped a little faster behind me. I led him across the dusty, bare spot in front of the stable and across to the pasture gate. We paused at the water trough, where someone had left the hose still running. The buckskin froze, jerking his head up and snorting suddenly.
My hand tightened on the lead rope and I instinctively looked toward the trough, expecting to see a snake or a lizard near the edge. But there was only the clean galvanized steel and the clear water flowing from the hose. âWhat is it, boy?â I stepped closer to him, trying to calm him with the nearness of my body. The horseâs eyes were wide, the whites visible. His nostrils flared, showing the edge of pink deep inside. His gaze was fixed on the trough.
âIs it the water?â I said softly. I tried to lead him toward the pasture gate. He would walk with me, but wouldnât allow his body near the trough, so he walked with his head turned as if the trough and he were opposing magnets. I led him through the gate and once more tried to lead him up to the trough. Was it the hose? The trough itself ? Holding the lead rope with one hand, I quickly turned off the water at the spigot and shoved the hose away with one foot. Now the surface of the water was no longer burbling and bubbling.
The buckskin relaxed, as if someone had turned off a switch, and lowered his head to the trough. He sucked up big mouthfuls of water with long slurping noises. I unclipped the lead rope and stroked his mane absently as he drank. It was the hose, thenâmaybe the way it made the water look? It couldnât be the hose itself, I decided, as the buckskin finished drinking and raised his head. It was lying right by my feet, and he was paying no attention to it. If he were afraid of the hose, like he would be if someone had beaten him with one, he still wouldnât want to come near it. It must have been the way the hose made the surface of the water burble and bubble. Or the noise, perhaps.
The buckskin raised his head from the water and turned his neck, looking across the pasture at the horizon. The other horses were just visible as specks, grazing on the vast plain of grass. I stepped back, watching, entranced. The warm wind lifted the buckskinâs rough black mane, twisting his forelock off his forehead. He raised his nose and let out a little whinny. The wind carried the sound to the other horses, and faintly an answering nicker came floating back. The horse trotted toward the sound, breaking into a long, easy canter. His feet beat the ground rhythmically, and it seemed impossible that he would ever stop. He should be called Magic, I thought as I closed and latched the gate. He looked like magic when he ran.
ChapterSix
Sweaty and dusty after the chores, I pushed open the screen door to the bunkhouse and hurried toward the kitchen for a drink of water. My mouth was so dry, it felt lined with flannel. The doorway to the kitchen was a brightly lit square in the dimness of the main room, and the sound of voices and clattering dishes
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