PrintFrom where I sit—the passenger seat of the Ram 3500—the horse is black, possibly dark bay, about 16 hands, and seems curious enough. He trots to the center of the corral, which is about 15 x 30 meters, pushing his nose up, sniffing the air and looking out at us.
On the drive here Bruce explained that he was to take this horse on for 90 days and start him. The owner, a cattleman, apparently by inclination more than need, wants a new ranch horse. “He's 4,” Bruce told me, "and he's lived out most of his life. This will be all new to him.”
The view from our parking spot is of grasslands on the right and the Jacksboro High School football stadium, dropped, it seems, like a frontier outpost, on the left. Bruce chats with the owner, a middle-aged man whose paunch is hidden underneath a Dallas Cowboys jacket. The man hands Bruce a slip of paper. Bruce glances at it and pockets it. After a minute Bruce nods, shakes the owner’s hand and returns to the truck.
“Hey Tik. Grab the halter and my rope. Lets go!”
The rope halter is in the backseat, and the lasso is lying on the bed of the truck, immediately behind the cab—it's a 40-foot polypropylene rope, worn soft as leather.
Bruce is already heading for the gate, and I jump the fence to catch up. We stand together in the middle of the pen while the owner watches from the fence. Bruce looks at the horse and lowers his voice: “That boy. He ain't 4. That bill of sale he showed me says he's born in 2003. He's 6.”
I study the horse. From close up I can see a narrow stripe that starts between his eyes and stretches slowly out into a snip that separates his busy nostrils.
“I figure it don't really change much. Just that the buck on a full growner is bigger. We'll be a bit more careful.”
Bruce stands in the middle organizing his rope and letting the horse get used to our presence, then yells over at the fence, “He's gelded right?”
“I s'pose so. Check his papers,” the man yells back. Bruce takes out the paper and confirms that he is a gelding.
A Process Of Patience
As we start walking towards the horse, Bruce explains the plan to me. We'll step closer, slowly, just a few steps at a time. If he moves at all, we stop. Bruce tells me to watch his feet. When they are still, we move forward, our two bodies creating a wall that will, in a few more steps, corner him.
When I am close enough I reach out and touch him. He faces the corner, and I stand by his hip slowly petting him. Bruce stands by the opposite hip blocking the horse's escape and watching me. I move up and pet his shoulder, but as I do, he pins his ears back and turns his head away from me. I take a step back and rest my hand near his withers again. I slowly, easily let the rope that is attached to my rope halter fall around his neck.
Then I grab the lead rope at both ends. But I didn't leave enough slack, and I find I don't have any leverage or play in the rope. The horse spins on his hindquarters and runs back between Bruce and I.
“I would have done that a little differently,” Bruce says, as he shakes his head. “I would have gone slower. It's not a race. And when you get the rope around his neck make sure you leave out more slack.
“Now we just have to catch him,” he continues. “One try with the halter is enough, we just want to get him out of here as easy as possible. It should be whatever is easiest for the horse. Later, when he's settled in at my place, we can start with the real work.”
