The Bronc Tamer

Long are the strips of rawhide, long and taut over calloused fingers, as the rope-to-be vibrates, growing slowly but steadily. The coal oil lamp issues a tentative wisp of soot, — got to fix the wick. Miss Nancy, willing to become a cowboy, pussyfoots in those ridiculous sport shoes to somewhere out of sight, behind Phil’s back. No, not “somewhere”: straight to the altar of Bronco Henry. Phil gets tense under the skin. “Was he your best friend?” — a spur jingles, making Phil want to slap some hands off. “Yeah... he was. He was more than that. Once, he saved my life.” * How many men does it take to break a bronc? Answer: three. One to hold the lasso, one to bridle, one to saddle and go on fighting (stomping, busting, as you choose). The remaining two would mount their own horses, prepared to crowd the colt in case he topples the rider. Phil is fifteen, Fatso is thirteen. Quite decent horsemen for their age, both young Burbanks have just taken part in their first mustanging campaign. Once located, a wild herd was cut off the watering place, run around the rough terrain for four days, and eventually pressed into the trap, arranged in a nearby canyon like a triple fishing weel. A gape of two wire strands, flanking the adversary with a multitude of rags, menacingly aflare, led to the entrance of a heart-shaped forcing corral, where a mass of sweaty spines, manes and legs double-curled into a stream, directed to be locked within the final, circular catch corral. The brothers were among the benders, whose prevailing duty was to wallow in the grass, awaiting each one's turn to saddle up and shoo the herd towards the next station. Man, was there a lot of battle cries and wind in the ears! Then followed a night by the campfire, fresh grain-fed horses, and a new span of contemplative immersion in the wilderness. All that for the exciting final sight of just two riders, waving their hats and hollering with all their might, sending two dozen proud and clever beasts into captivity. For one more day the mustangs had been kept stewing in the trap, to get used to a fence; then forefooted, sidelined, and mingled with gentle, domesticated horses, for the convenience of driving the whole bunch to the embrace of the household corral. Only there, with great discretion, preventing them from damaging their stomachs, they were allowed to have some water.   That was the season when new workers gravitated to the ranch. Secure of food and shelter, they used to splurge their earnings carelessly, hence very few of them had managed to save enough to buy a horse. Help yourself, tame a bronco so as to get hired, then time will show what you are good for. The foreman at the Burbank ranch, called Black Bill, was known as the best stomper around. It took him never more than one throw to slip the noose around a horse’s neck. While the animal was wheezing for air, a handyman bent it down by the upper lip, making it easier to mount. On horseback, Bill reached for a short quirt and, with a firm grip of a loop under the saddle, having nodded leisurely: let go! — began the breaking. Likewise at once, beating the wild thing into obedience up to the cold sweat of exhaustion. Twenty minutes, forty minutes, an hour, if needed — until something clicked between the pointed ears, and an offensive burden atop became an inevitable new part of equine existence. Sick and tired of the same old show, Phil was just about to pass by the corral’s riding ring, when his attention was claimed by catcalls and hooting, produced by the cowhands with unprecedented enthusiasm. Moments ago Black Bill had suffered a… let’s call it a tie. Seeing him barely in balance, two junior mustangers had forced his prancer to slow down along the fence, and Billy, paws around a fellow's waist, slid off with the grace of a mill sack. The third rider picked up the trailing end of the noose and reminded the bay rebel, who was the king of nature there. The taste of mishap was burning to be chased away. What with? The all-time favorite sport — rookie shaming. Apparently, the current candidate for immolation turned out particularly delicious. The guy looks hardly twentysomething, and definitely not local.* Firstly, by his attire. Slackier trousers, gabardine not denim, tucked into boots almost knee-high, soft and tight; weird woven chaps; and, geez, a cream-colored neckcloth. Plus a beret instead of a hat. A beret! Now they’re gonna chew him down for sure. His paint is alien just as well. Dark-haired and complexioned, he is not Indian, though, with a nose too straight and finely sculpted. Beneath his firm cheekbones, there are pronounced washaways of canine fossae, and Phil is curious to see how those cheeks would fold in a smile. Should there be a reason to smile. “C’mon, Bronco!” jeers the gang, addressing who-knows-whom: the greenhorn or the horse. One more dark-maned bay stud is standing there already, bridled and tied to a pole. His abrasive tail twirls, castigating him across the backside and between the legs. He seems quite used to handling, only impatient. This ostensible calm is due to the rag upon his eyes. But rest assured, a designated fool is going to get the meanest three-year-old in the herd. The newbie approaches without haste, drawing out every step, and swiftly hops up into the saddle. The instant he lies back, grabbing a long thick sisal rope half-wrapped around the saddle horn instead of reins, the horse is released and unblinded. Off we go! After a little faltering, guessing what the hell has landed onto his back, the free-born bronc, hunched like a horseshoe, soars up above the clouds of dust with all his four hooves. In a suspended moment he uncoils, still in the air — neck down, heels kicking at the horizon, — and so he bounces around the ring, wave after wave. The rider’s lithe body is tossed like a whip, from hips to top. His free hand sways in circles, as if in instigation of the wild race, and all he can rely on is just the rope and the sinew of his own thighs. But the saddle is intentionally unfit both for the horse and for the horseman. The young man’s rear hovers above the seat, higher every time between returns that must be rather painful; the bronco ducks his head sharply, and in some apex point of their disruption the buster, giving up, pulls up his leg over the mane below. The stud turns off-track, and the lad lands flexibly upon his sole, palm, knee and metatarsus. He rises in no time, ready to continue, but, naturally, no one ever gives a damn to help. Having found no gaps in the perimeter, the animal, alert however tired, freezes at the farthest distance from the oppressors. And the Creole guest doesn’t even have a lasso. Instead, he detaches from his belt — it’s only now that Phil has noticed — a strange sort of balls, covered with dried intestines or what, at the ends of plaited raw hide ropes. There are three of them; clenching at one, the newcomer whirls the rest around a slanted orbit. Whoosh, and the horsey is forefooted. Standing still. Smart thing. Been there, thrown down and immobilized with someone’s arse pressing his head to the ground. Won’t like that to happen again. Evidently, Phil’s face displays some glimpses of sympathy. For it’s him, and none else, who gets a compelling glance from under the beret and a tanned chin’s directional nod. Without demur, Phil comes up to the horse along with the captor, who grasps the hackamore and unfastens the rope in a way to avoid being bitten. “Stroke his shoulders. And forelegs,” a voice command follows. “Do it yourself,” Phil huffs, bronze-haired, in unison with the bay one. “Look here.” Avuncular and fluent like his tone, the stranger’s hands begin to scratch the bronco behind the ears… around the eyes… along the neck… Surprisingly, the colt jerks once, twice, and no more. “The beast must sense that your power bears no threat to him.” When Phil goes on stroking, as if mesmerized, his... partner?.. takes off the worthless saddle and, golly, runs his fingertips over the area revealed, all incised by the scars of last year’s mating fights. Brushing through the pelt, in smooth circles, with an air of repose in his own horse barn. The puzzled spectators exchange elbow pokes, quiet whistles and halfhearted jokes. The Creole raises his voice: “Proper reins, anyone.” Somebody throws those over the fence. Phil figures out that, to attach them to the headgear, he needs to fondle the nose. “Now lend me your knee.” Via Phil’s live step, the tamer melts all over the back of the woozy mustang, whispers into his mane, and finally sits up without a saddle. By the mere touch of legs and reins, though not without snorting, dashing or shrinking, he makes a round and stops in front of Bill the foreman. “M'kay, am I in?” Black Bill spits out a chewn, unlit rollie. “Get down,” he says. The horseman jumps to the ground, barren by hundreds of hooves. Bill collapses from the fence. One is svelte, the other beefy. Phil would rather not make bets on this pair. “What’s that ya'v whisper’d to him, eh? A powwow, are ya? We’ve got a short way wid yer kind…” The king of stompers turning up his sleeves, the rookie doesn’t bother to get his fists out of his pockets. Nevertheless, he loses no second when Bill lowers his head and attacks him like a bull. A long step back, and his hands rise, spilling rivulets of ropes, ending with weighty balls of smaller size. Ta-dup! — having spun at the sides of a glib frame with a proud curve of ribs, the balls elicit two small advance-warning explosions of soil. Loops merge into planes, flying in the air like shields and swords. Tup! — Bill skid-brakes, almost hit in the nose by a stony projectile. Tupata, tupata, tup! This, not the horse whispering, is the true magic. The weapon articulates brief insults and scathing speeches, still finding time to digress towards Bill coyoting around. Pabatatup-tah! Pabatatup-tah! Ta-dapa, ta-dapa, tatipatatah! Not a speech anymore, it’s a full-fledged dance, sustained by the heelplates of smug boots. Tapping, stepping, lunging. In the middle of the arena, there remains a grassy elevated spot. It makes sounds thicker, the dancer — more expressive, and an utter buffoon out of the foreman. Phil has always been musical: just take his banjo variations of Mozart. He singles out the rhythm and, lifting his palms above his shoulder, claps in sync with his own heartbeat. The alien smiles at him and coils the strings around his fingers, by inertia, hands hiding the balls. The miraculous feet patter, lash across his thighs, jump ruthlessly onto their outer edges and curling arches. Finally, his right leg swings higher than his waist and sole-stomps the turf. The last word. The corral bursts with cowboy uproar and applause. Without turning his head towards the foreman, trampled into oblivion, the winner waddles up to Phil for a handshake: “Bronco Henry.” Ever-abuzz with boredom, brimming with nervous energy, Phil likes to invent and to mangle accents. Adding extra sounds, or sparing those expected. And so he reduces: “Is Bronc(a) a name or a surname?” “Bronca is what you feel once I lay you down to bite the dust, and let you get up when I choose to. And I go by Bronco-h.” His eyes resemble belladonna berries — violet brown, unflinching, unblinking, — and Phil understands: yes, he could. “Are you from Mexico? Vaquero?” Phil keeps up. “Nope, a gaucho. From Argentina. But indeed, through Mexico,” — a grin, so white, splits the tan, urging a corner of Phil’s mouth to curl up in response. “Why not stay in Argentina, then? Going by the papers, it’s a total upturn there.” “Less pretense, here,” Bronco Henry shrugs. “Everything’s more simple and straightforward. Yet not as obtuse as in Mexico at that.” Phil understands. Even though ordinary hands had no access to stately mansions (assuming for a jiffy that Henry had always been an ordinary hand), the cringe of Argentine toffs towards Paris was oozing from every pore. Those were mimicked by the metropolitan riff-raff, who, in turn, were role models to grim gauchos, hitting suburban taverns for a gulp of luxury. What a ready-made cartoon: a striped suit, a white cache-nez beneath a weathered mug with drooping moustache, white gainters… and a knife always ready to use. Old Lady Burbank also appreciated fashion and fine cuisine, dressed up for dinners, took pains to arrange picnics and luncheons for the local “society”, regardless that, in terms of outlook, the said society was not a far cry from their workforce. Phil mocked at her preposterous Christmas gifts, without any gratitude, and shunned the master bathroom like the plague. That luscious bathroom between the bedrooms of the parents and the sons, shamelessly censed with female perfume, now and then featured something so lacey and transparent that it made his cheeks burn with indignation. Luckily enough, the boys could use a more Spartan restroom. But, to their due credit, the Old Ones were readers. They bought books and subscribed to magazines, maintaining a certain level of taste and filling Phil with still more arrogance, in the guise of simplicity. Isn’t Henry the same?.. Sharp enunciation, good vocabulary. So easy to portray him as an offspring of an emigrant British land owner, who’s taken a mail-order bride from somewhere in Spain, tormented by never-ending civil wars. Phil flushes under his gentle film of tan. Too much interest in a hotshot a trifle elder than himself. “Gonna tell the Old Gent that we’ve got a new mustanger.” He spins on his heels and jitterily strides back home.