When we’re chasing cows, nobody cares whether a horse can run, but we’ll trip each other on the way to the barn to get our hands on the one that can walk.
With the exception of the Longhorns, who have a pace all their own, we like to move cattle in a leisurely manner, which is fine with our fat, spoiled cows, and a never-ending source of frustration to Max the Cowdog. We’d get done much faster if she was in charge.
The cowboy rides along behind, shouting encouragement as needed, zigzagging this way and that to keep the herd together. Walk over here. Walk over there. Walk over here again. Mile after mile. This is when you truly appreciate a horse with a smooth, ground-eating stride. It’s also when a horse that can’t or won’t walk becomes a four-legged torture device.
Betsy was the worst. At barely 14 hands, she was only a half-size larger than the average Shetland pony, with a mouth like granite, a head to match and Roan Hancock attitude coming out her ears. She was one of the best rope horses we’ve ever owned, but outside the arena, she was an evil incarnate.
Walking away from the barn was like pushing a canoe upstream with one hand. She veered left, then right, then left, and if you let your guard down for even an instant, she’d swap ends and head for home. Finally, after kicking and wrestling her every step of the way, you’d dump the cows into the target pasture. What a relief.
Not. The instant you headed toward the barn, she’d grab the bit in her teeth and blast off. Given her size, it should have been easy to stop her. Wrong. You’d brace your feet in the stirrups and haul back on the reins with both hands and all your might. Assuming you’d eaten your spinach and picked a good stiff bit, you could keep her to a bone-rattling, side-stepping, nose-rooting trot. If you tried to stop completely, she’d whip around and run backwards. It would have been easier to get off and walk home, but then she’d either drag or circle you (over at least one set of toes) and try to bolt while you were tangled in the reins.
Ember couldn’t walk a lick. Her little legs churned as fast as they could, but she had the stride length of a gopher. Captain, on the other hand, can walk faster than Tick can trot, though that might not be much of an endorsement considering she’s called Tick because when you turn her out on grass she swells up like her namesake. Vegas can stride out pretty well, but he pounds the ground like it insulted his mother and dang near yanks your arm out of the socket grabbing at every patch of tall grass.
At the end of the day, we end up riding home side-by-side. It looks casual – reins slack, conversation idle. Except I’m pretty sure my Hank can out-walk my husband’s Hollywood, with a little extra squeeze of my heels. And no way is Dad going to let us out-pace Nico.
The race is on. First to the barn without breaking into a trot wins. FG
Kari Lynn Dell is a third-generation cowgirl, horse trainer and rodeo competitor. She writes from her family ranch on Montana's Blackfeet Reservation. For information on her novels, short stories and other writing projects, visit her website.
PHOTO: The race is on. First to the barn without breaking into a trot wins. Photo by Kari Lynn Dell.
