I rip a square of paper towel off the roll beside the sink—dishes overflow onto the counter—and fold it in half to form a pincer between my thumb and forefinger. The satiated tick is still as I pick it up from where it fell off the dog. Its body is smooth and spherical as I roll it between my fingers, and smaller than a pea. I palpate it a couple times. Its texture reminds me of a paintball, or a fresh egg after someone has peeled away the shell, leaving only the thin membrane that seals the yolk and white inside.

“Are you going to squish it?” Rhiannon asks while petting the dog.

“I guess,” I say and look at her as I continue to roll the ball around between my fingers.

Rhiannon is young and enthusiastic: she won’t take no crap from no one. Although, in this case she’s content to let the job go to a man. She said man with all the scorn an English teenager can muster. “It’s not a job for a lady,” she continued.

“So what is she doing in Texas?” I wonder. Living in the back country and rising with the sun is tough and lonely work. Rhiannon is following the horizon. She’s gone West, and her calloused hands and sun-bleached hair no longer fit the model of a girl from the northern island of Shetland.

“Go on then!” she insists.

And so I squeeze it. It bursts easily, and when I look inside, I see the remains of my arachnicide: a splotch of dark, dark crimson, about the size of a quarter.

“Time to start the day,” I say as I throw the paper in the garbage and clomp down the steps of the trailer, Pop-Tart in hand. The dogs—Cougar, Cutter, Beau, Turtle and Dottie—follow us—Bruce Logan, Rhiannon and I—as we saddle the horses and ride out.

Riding The Range

The western saddle doesn’t take much getting used to, and we’re quickly trotting along the east fence-line, heading out of the close 600 and into the southern 3000 acres to check on the cattle and look for buffalo. At least, I’m looking for buffalo. And deer, and coyotes, and wild hogs. And turtles. All of which can be found on the range somewhere, amongst the maze of oaks and mesquite, and often near the water holes.

At the bluffs we let the horses pick their way up, shale breaking and rolling underfoot. Bruce leads, but he’s ready with advice if I need it.

“Tik, with that 2-year-old you’re on, let him feel his way, but be ready to support him if he needs it.”

Bruce is also on a young horse and is riding ahead of me, somehow finding a path through the dry skeletal scrub, which grab the stirrups and twist around my legs. He doesn’t look back to see if I’m still there, but he continues explaining: “Keep the horse between your legs and hand. If you want to go right use your left leg and open with your right. The horse needs somewhere to go, and when you take your leg off he should go towards it. If he doesn’t, then use the reins.”

I remember the first time I met Bruce—last week—while he was competing in Canada. I caught up with him between rounds and asked him if I should bring my English riding pants, boots and helmet.

Bruce eyed me up and down, taking in my North Face vest and sneakers, and said, “I don’t think you’ll need them. We run a pretty simple operation. Jeans and boots are all you’ll need, but whatever you’re most comfortable in.”

At the top of the bluffs I survey the rocky, lilting landscape. Somewhere the cattle are grazing, and I’m going to spot them. I’m wearing a button down shirt and a borrowed cap with STIHL 4-MIX printed on the front. It fits a little tight but keeps the glare out of my eyes. The sun forms an aura around Bruce. In his silhouette, his wide-brim hat seems as much a part of him as his arms or hands, and I notice his lariat at the ready, looping around the horn and falling partly over his thigh, a white circle that stands out against the bay horse and brown saddle, even with the sun behind him.

“Where did you learn your horsemanship?” I ask.

“Well, let me think,” he says, as he leads the way down a new trail. “I spent a good five years with Pat Parelli. Craig Johnston taught me reining. My biggest influence? Probably Ronnie Willis. Either him or my father, I guess.”

Bruce picks his way amongst the mesquite and seems content to talk more about his mentors. He has taken what he wants from each of them and made it his own, and now he is passing it on. Paying it forward and having fun doing it.

My horse, a black Tennessee Walker, tentatively starts up a short bank after Bruce, rocks back on his hocks and then scrambles up the steepest part, almost brushing me off on the branches of an oak. I let the reins slip loose and give him his head. I rub his neck as he rests at the top. The dogs rush on ahead.

We walk on, picking our way among the rocks, Bruce first, now Rhiannon is second, and I bring up the rear. And that’s when we see the bull. The horses are instantly edgy. They back up, prick their ears, tense their shoulders. I stare at him, hidden slightly behind the canopy of a dying oak, and he stares right back. He’s the only bull in this section. He has 30 cattle to service; if there were any more than that he wouldn’t be able to manage, and a second bull would be necessary.

He’s a fine bull, the biggest I’ve seen. Red coat, white longhorns and a white meaty face. “They are all completely grass fed, right up until the end,” Bruce says, pulling his hat down lower. “That bull has an important job to do.”

Honesty And Consistency Are Key

We start off again at a trot, the most efficient gait for riding long distances, and after another mile we come to another fence. At the gate Bruce gets off to open it while the dogs gallop underneath and take off after a deer. I watch Bruce place his foot in the stirrup, grab the pommel and swing himself up. But as he does, his horse steps forward. Maybe Bruce’s weight shifted, or the horse reacted to the dogs, or maybe he was impatient to get back to the barn, but it is unacceptable.

Bruce pulls on the reins and shifts his weight back, backing the horse up three paces. The horse throws his head, and Bruce backs him up again. He jabs once with his spur. The horse steps back awkwardly another step, tired of this game now. Finally he is still, and he lowers his head. Bruce immediately lowers his hands, perfectly still now, and lets him stand. Then Bruce gets off, pats his horse, and remounts quietly.

“If you make a mistake, they’ll probably forgive you. But if you are unfair, they might not. I’m firm, but I’m fair. Sometimes you have to go through fire before they get it. But if I stop before that point, I’m teaching him that it’s OK to act up, that he’s right and I’m wrong,” Bruce explains.

I nod in answer, but Bruce is already looking ahead, scouting the best route home.

What Bruce means is honesty and consistency are key. The expectations on a horse have to be understandable and logical. If I walk up to you and offer my hand as if to shake yours, you might extend your hand. And what if I then looked you in the eye and slapped you across the face? When a horse is asked to perform, the cue should be clear, and the reward—taking the cue away—immediate.  

We dismount back at the barn. Before leaving, Bruce tells us the plan for tomorrow. Early start. The cattle need to be brought in so the young ones can be weaned.

This is a rare year—every cow has a calf, and they follow their mothers with dogged perseverance. Once the calves are separated, they can be used to practice cutting.

“Horses work better when they have a job to do,” Bruce says as he takes his lasso off his saddle and throws it on the bed of his truck next to his welding equipment. “You never know when you’ll need that,” I think.

I look over at Rhiannon. “If you feed, I’ll do the stalls.”

“Deal” she says.

As I pick up the pitchfork I look around: the dogs are tired; flies steal sweat from the backs of the horses; the saddles are put away neatly, but they’re not oiled; what’s a little bit of scuff? Rhiannon smiles at me, and behind her dust rises from the road as Bruce’s pickup fades into the distance.

In the evening, Rhiannon and I walk back to the trailer where I grab a Coors Light and Rhiannon heads for the shower. I didn’t bring my English boots or breeches, I don’t expect I’ll want them, and I definitely won’t need them. In the background crickets chirp, coyotes howl. A place like this puts the color back into those black and white expressions of old: Hold your horses. You’re as strong as an ox! As wily as a fox. As frisky as a filly.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Grab the bull by the horns!

He’s as fat as a tick.

Or as useful as a bull with tits.

Life is simple here: every job has a purpose, every animal has a use. People and horses are similar in that regard I guess—they crave purpose. This is the country of purpose, and this is the land where America’s West was defined. This is the frontier. Or was. How much longer will men like Bruce, in his dusty cowboy hat, be around to show us the way?

In the summer of 2008 Tik Maynard came up with a grand plan. He decided to spend a year working for some of the greatest horsemen he could find in different disciplines and writing about his experiences. So far, he has worked for Johann Hinnemann, Ingrid Klimke and David and Karen O’Connor. Although he spent the summer of 2009 at home in Vancouver, B.C., Canada, he’s still working on expanding his equestrian education.