One of the best times I had with Little Joe was at Carey’s Camp in New Mexico, a horse camp for kids and teens. It was the summer after I broke him. I persuaded Leroy to haul Little Joe the 150 miles up to the camp. By then Little Joe was quite a good reining horse and could turn on a dime. We participated in bareback and saddle races, pole bending and barrel races, and made a haul on blue ribbons. We were the envy of our peers, most of whom had to ride camp horses. I returned to Lazy B feeling like a full-grown cowboy.
That fall, as a high school freshman, I spent more time playing football and chasing girls than riding Little Joe. But when we connected, with me in the saddle and the two of us out on the range, we picked up where we had left off. When I went to college, my dad let other cowboys ride him. I’d come home on breaks and summer vacations and there would be Little Joe, head alert, waiting for me to come down to the corral to say hello and give him some loving. It was as much a part of my welcome home as hugs from my family. When I graduated from college and returned to the ranch to work, Little Joe was middle-aged. On the days I rode him, we’d look each other in the eye. I’d see contentment, enthusiasm, and the steadfast pledge of friendship. “That’s a boy,” I’d say at the end of those special days, one arm hooked around his neck and the other pouring out a little extra grain. When he grew too old for long days on the range chasing cattle, he retired to a pasture on Lazy B where he had leisurely days hanging out in the sun. He died in his late twenties.
When I think back on all the horses I’ve bonded with and ridden over the years, the blue roan with the big heart always brings a smile to my face.
I wouldn’t find any Little Joes at Palomino Valley, but maybe I would get some insight into the wild horses. So the next morning I returned. Red and Roy and a third handler were saddling their horses and greeted me with a wave. The herd had been moved to a rectangular feed corral that looked to be about half an acre with gates in the middle of each side. I wandered along the perimeter, looking for a good viewing spot. The horses milled about, some pushing their noses into the hay spread on the ground. I spotted the foal walking, his head more alert than yesterday. Maybe the alfalfa hay was helping his mama produce more milk. An occasional grunt and snort floated through the air. I settled on a spot close to where an old dun rested. A jagged scar ran from hip socket to flank and one eye was half-closed.
A handler opened a corral gate on the side opposite me, and Red and Roy and another cowboy, mounted on their horses, entered. The gate remained open. Their mission was to drive the horses through that gate into a smaller corral and eventually into an alley that led to the working chute where the vet awaited. The cowboys’ presence seemed to trigger an alarm only the horses could hear. Ears pricked forward. Nostrils widened. The mustangs started to skitter and shift, some prancing in place, others wheeling back and forth in quick movements. A thin palomino ran for the far corner. The horses bumped against each other turning to follow her. The dun struggled to push herself up and join the group. Her one eye filled with fear.
The herd migrated into a huddle. Panicked heads jostled over and under each other, blind to anything but trying to find safety. A bay stallion stood at the edge of the herd eyeing the approaching cowboys. He shook his head up and down and let loose a high-pitched squeal. The dun struggled, pulled herself up, ran on three legs over to the group, and wedged her way into the inner circle.
Red started trotting toward the group to flush it out of the corner while the other two cowboys got in position to wing the horses through the open gate. The bay was the first to break. He stretched out his neck and charged toward the opposite corner. Within seconds, the rest of the herd noticed and took off behind him. Roy and the other cowboy stood their ground as the mustangs ran toward them. Ten yards in front of the cowboys, the stallion paused, glanced at the gate, then put his head down and raced along the corral fence past the gate and the men. The herd followed its leader. Dust rose around the cowboys as the horses thundered past. The frightened animals huddled in the far corner, heads down and ears back.
“Aw right,” yelled Red, circling his arm in the air. “Let’s give it another go, boys.”
He approached the herd. The horses broke and ran. Missed the gate. Rehuddled. Roy and the other wrangler shifted their horses into position. Red came at the herd again, and again the horses ran. They bunched in the corner, sides heaving. The hot sun reflected off the shiny sweat forming on their hides. The cowboys went at it again. Clouds of dust swirled in a vortex of increasing frustration. The conflict of wills between horse and man hung in the air, as strong as the smell of alfalfa and wild animal. I knew eventually the men would prevail because they always did in this world, but that didn’t mean the scene unfolding in front of me was easy to watch. Forty-eight hours ago, these creatures had been running and playing and living on open range. Now here they were, a pod of fear and flight, moving deeper into a process they didn’t understand.
“You hardheaded sons of bitches. How many times is it going to take for you to see the gate?” Red wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. If the gate had been in the corner, the cowboys’ job would have been far easier.
“Go slow boys. Hold ’em and let ’em see the gate,” yelled Red, pushing at the back of the bunch. This time, as if telepathically communicating, the three lead horses stopped right in front of the gate. The rest of the mustangs pulled up behind them. Some looked over at the corral on the other side, others watched the cowboys in front of and behind them.
The skinny palomino was closest to the opening. She crouched on her hind legs and in one smooth, powerful movement jumped through the open space and landed in the next corral. The other horses saw she survived. They rushed the gate at once, trying to crowd through like subway riders boarding a train at rush hour. The gate jammed, but with a bit of jostling the first line of horses emerged unscathed. The rest filtered through without a hitch.
The three cowboys rode through and a wrangler slammed the gate shut. I climbed higher on the fence to see over into this new corral. It looked to be to be half the size of the large arena. The horses did four more wind sprints from corner to corner, then ran around its circumference and peeled through the open gate. A handler slammed the gate shut. This time the cowboys stayed behind, a good idea, as the horses were tightly bunched, crushed against the sides of the corral. They dismounted and tied their horses to the corral tubing. By the time I found my way closer to the action, Red, Roy, and three other wranglers stood on the tubing, each holding long poles with tattered white flags tied at the end. They waved the flags at the horses in an effort to get them to go toward the alley. The horses looked around, nervous and confused, edging away from the pesky flags.
It continued to be slow-going and clumsy. No horse wanted to be first in the alley. Shouts and snorts punctured the oppressive air. Horses’ heads bobbed against each other. The cowboys’ body language spoke of tension and frustration.
From the alley, the mustangs would funnel into a chute the width of one horse. Once in the chute, each horse would be pushed into a hydraulic squeeze chute that clamped around the animal and rendered it immobile so the attending vet could brand, vaccinate, worm, and if need be, castrate. A logical, well-planned system. We used a similar system at Lazy B. Once we trained our cattle, minimal chaos and friction attended the process. The cattle understood what we wanted from them and obeyed. It became far easier on all of us.
These horses, however, with wary eyes and flicking tails, were not gentled or trained. No one had talked to them and introduced them to their foreign surroundings. They had been kidnapped and deposited in a culture that was as foreign to them as a suit and tie on Wall Street would be to me. Consequently, the cowboys’ job was five times harder than it might be if the horses knew the system.
The vet had parked his truck near the squeeze chute, the final destination for each horse before being released into a large corral. I watched the pull and tug of the cowboys and horses and reflected on my background of training cattle. Could I train a group of horses like these to follow my orders and not rebel at every step? My intuition—or was it my ego—told me I could. I did know there was a less stressful way to handle these horses.
I walked over to say hello to the vet and secure an unobtrusive place from which to watch the grand finale.
“Hey there,” I said. The vet looked up from organizing an assortment of instruments. “I’m a spectator at this tango. Tell me where you want me to go, so I won’t step on any toes. Or get my toes stepped on.”
“Let’s see. I’ll be working here, around the head of the horses,” said the vet, pointing to the end of the squeeze chute. “When we release them, they’ll go straight into that corral.” He pointed. “If you stand behind the chute, you’ll be good. Just make sure you don’t stand in front of it. These guys will be eager to get out and they’ll run you over.”
From behind the chute, I had a decent view of the escalating chaos.
The horses had entered the alley, five to six abreast, with the leaders straining to get into the crowding pen that funneled down to the chute. Roy closed the gate behind eight horses in the pen, leaving the rest of the horses in the alley. Red and the other wrangler dismounted and left their horses in the third corral. They continued on foot, working safely on the outside of the alley and crowding pen, as well as the narrow chute. It was awkward work.
They leaned over the corral rails, shouted at the confused, frightened horses, jabbed them in the ribs with long sticks, slapped their hands on their backs, and literally shoved them forward. At least they weren’t allowed to use hot shots, painful electric shocks given to animals. These cowboys were doing their best while trying to avoid the worst-case scenario: a horse rearing up in the chute. If a horse rears and tips over backward, he becomes like a beetle on his back. Stuck. To avoid injury or even death by trampling, the rest of the chute has to be emptied so that the cowboys can climb in and pull him upright. That situation is not good for horse or wrangler.
I watched Red shut one of the gates in the chute to prevent a sorrel from backtracking. The horse bumped her back end against the hard tubing and stood still for a moment. Red hollered at her and pushed her from behind. She tried to turn her head but couldn’t move it much. There was nowhere to go but forward. I could almost feel her resignation. The trauma of the morning, added to the events of the past few days, had siphoned much of her will.
I had seen horses lose their will. Sometimes it never returned. Back in my early teens, Jim Brister, one of the Lazy B cowboys, taught me a major lesson about a horse’s will. Jim was the most respected horse breaker on our ranch, not to mention southern Arizona, for the fifty years he worked there. We were out cowboying on Lazy B, and I was riding Sally, a pretty horse, big and strong but gentle in nature. I had placed a hackamore, a bitless bridle, on her nose to train her. Big cotton reins ran from the hackamore into my hands. My fourteen-year-old arms felt sore from pulling the reins on the side I wanted her to turn toward. Every time I pulled one way, she put her head around the other way and stiffened her neck so I couldn’t budge her. She was winning the contest of wills and making it difficult to help round up the cattle. My cussing would have embarrassed my mother. I could see Jim watching us. After some time, he rode over and suggested trading horses. It sounded like the idea of the century.
With a large, athlete’s body and chiseled, strong face topped with a well-worn black hat, Jim looked like he was born on a horse. He mounted Sally, who was not yet fully grown. He hadn’t ridden one hundred yards when he reached up, grabbed the rein near the headstall and jerked her nose clear around to touch his knee. He pulled so hard she crumpled to the ground. Jim stepped from the saddle, clamped his foot on the bend of her neck and held her nose up almost waist high. She struggled to get up. Jim took the reins and began whipping her nose. She squealed and swam her legs through the air, but he kept her pinned. The reins slapped and slapped against her nose. He whipped her until she urinated on the ground. I sat on Jim’s horse not more than twenty feet away, my stomach in my throat, barely comprehending what was happening in front of me.
From that moment, Sally never resisted being pulled to the right or the left. In fact, she never resisted much of anything. Although I loved Jim for many reasons, I never liked his horse-health-be-damned school of training. Yet he was my role model for training horses. It would take me until I trained Saber ten years later to finally figure out a gentler method of teaching a horse and earning its respect.
I watched a cowboy jab the bay stallion with a pole to make him jump into the hydraulic clamp. His struggling proved useless. The vet started to do his thing. He shaved patches on the horse’s neck and hip, then pressed the branding iron, cooled to thirty below zero, against the bare skin for thirty seconds or so. The hair on the frozen skin would grow back white. He then moved to the front of the horse and inspected his teeth. He wrote something on a clipboard, presumably an estimate of the horse’s age, his color, and if he knew, where the horse had been captured. Next he inserted a tube with worm medicine down the horse’s throat, then vaccinated for disease. Castration was next. The vet cut off the end of the scrotum and pulled down the testicles until two cords were visible. He clamped the cords to stop the bleeding, picked up a scalpel, and sliced off the testicles. The horse shook slightly. The surgery took about ten minutes and the proceedings before it another ten minutes. The horse now had a social security card of sorts and was part of the government’s system.
One by one the horses moved through the chute. When they exited, they ran to the far end of the corral and shook their heads as if to regain their senses and recover from the trauma they had just endured. As mates were released, the families—some still together from the open ranges, others formed since arriving yesterday—reconvened. They had entered a new world. They never again would be wild on open range.