The Busted Thumb Horse Ranch by Paul Bagdon Page B

rare one, a full sixteen hands tall and maybe a
hair more, and his muscles were perfectly defined.
His chest was wide and powerful. His head
was classic, ears fairly small, muzzle as straight
as the barrel of a .45, and his eyes placed perfectly.
He was a blood bay and his coat looked
like polished copper when the sun hit it right.
    He was in motion all the time, his muzzle testing
the air, his eyes never still, sweeping over his
harem and offspring, moving his body to get a
better view of whatever he was looking at.
    That was the strange thing both Arm and I
picked up on. The stallion seemed to shift his
hind end to change positions rather than take the
easy step with his front feet that would bring him
around.
    “He has injured leg,” Armando said. “Maybe
bad hoof—maybe the bone, she is busted.”
    “Still, he looks real good. If he ain’t purelycrazy,
he could maybe make a good stud horse
for us,” I said. “Injuries don’t make any difference
’less he’d been born with them an’ passed them
on to his get.”
    “Ees true.” Arm waited a long moment. “Now
what?”
    “Hell, I dunno. This little valley isn’t a bad
place to try to get ropes on the stud, but then
we’re buying a pig in a poke. I think we should
watch a couple three-three days, see how that boy
handles himself.”
    “What peeg? Ees no gordo. You talk funny
sometimes, Jake.”
    I sighed. “Forget it, okay? It’s jus’ something
Americans say.”
    “But, I…”
    I sighed again. “Let it go for God’s sake,” I said,
speaking louder than I should have.
    Arm grumbled something but shut up. We
hunkered down and watched the herd drink and
crop grass. Arm nudged me and pointed. A young
stud—he looked like a two-year-old—stood off to
the side of the mares, posturing, snorting, dropping
his head and kicking out with his heels. The
mares pretty much ignored him, although several
heads turned toward his “tough guy” act.
    The young stallion was a good-looking horse.
He stood fifteen hands or so, was nicely muscled,
and moved well. His coat was called “sooty,” a
color that isn’t seen often in mustangs—or other
horses, for that matter. What it amounts to is a
kind of layer of black, dullish hairs over a deeper,
darker black.
    As I said, the mares weren’t paying him muchattention,
but the blood-bay stallion was watching
him closely.
    Armando chuckled. “That youngster, his blood
runs hot. He wishes to take some brides, no?”
    “Or some putas —I don’t think it matters to
him.”
    Sooty worked his way around the group of
mares toward the bay, showing off like a schoolboy
in front of the girls all the way. The bay
turned to face him and snorted, the sound loud
and sharp and angry.
    When Sooty was fifty feet from the leader of
the herd he stopped his shenanigans and stood
square, glaring at the bay. Other than a slight digging
motion of his right forefoot, he was statue
still. The bay took a step toward the youngster
and as he did so his left shoulder dropped farther
than it should have—whatever injury he had was
in his left front leg or hoof.
    Sooty, impetuous like all youth, charged, running
full out, head extended, teeth exposed, his
hooves raising little explosions of dust. The bay
rose to meet him, shifted his bulk slightly to the
side, and tore a dinner-plate size of hide and hair
off his challenger, leaving a raw, bleeding patch
on Sooty’s side, just behind his withers.
    Sooty squealed in pain but whirled about to
attack again—with essentially the same result.
This time he ignored the pain and reared, striking
out at the bay with front hooves that were
faster than a rattler’s assault—and more deadly.
A well-directed hoof could crush the forehead of
another horse like an overripe melon.
    The bay reared and that’s when Armando andI
got a clear view of the horse’s left front hoof:
it was twisted grotesquely inwardly, making a
forty-five-degree angle with his leg. He struck
with his right hoof, catching Sooty