The Bronc Tamer

Gritting his teeth, the foreman has to admit that Bronco is a goddamn asset. A jack-of-all-trades. His horse is groomed to the nines, while the Burbanks’ livestock is gaining weight in peace. Not a head has strayed on Henry’s watch, none fallen victim to a coyot or cougar. Lassoing a bull by both horns, grabbing a goatling at full tilt, — in any riding contest he’s a hands-down winner. And yes, he can tame broncs nonviolently, leaving them way more healthy and sane. All the rest of the day and early next morning Phil ponders on a pretext to have more words with Bronco Henry. The most obvious solution, which he kept dismissing as too trite, proves most elegant after all. “Gimme a look at those balls. How can I do mine? By the way, I’m Phil.” “Phil, it’s bolas. Bolas, it’s Phil. Come with me so I show you.” The ranch hands had breakfast at six, in the back dining room. Then the greenhorn was told to look after the milking herd. Many would like to be workmates with him, but saved their breath, wary of Bill. So Phil, intercepting Henry by the door, could not have picked a better time. Not daring to invite himself to the cowboys’ table, he took unashamed advantage of a fondness that the cook, Mrs. Lewis, had for him, converting it into a generous loaf of bread and a gob of goat cheese. Fatso sulks: the brothers used to be inseparable. What the Old Folks would say, when they descend to repast at eight, does not worry Phil in the slightest.   A son of his parents and an owner of a palomino gelding, the elder of the young Burbanks is trained in the English style of riding. He tries to copycat neck reining, but it’s still hit and miss. “Wait. How are you holding the rein?” Phil almost bristles up, but there’s no taunt in Henry’s voice, only an urge to correct. “Here, slip it between your fingers, just like this. Then all you do is tilt it to his neck, put more weigth on the stirrup, a-and he tu-u-urns.” This is fantastic. By the moment they get to the pasture, to stand in for the night watch, it feels like the only way that Phil has ever known. Goodness, now he can throw a lasso, or bolas, right from horseback! Neither of which he has, though. “Let’s make you a rope first,” Henry suggests. “Otherwise you would just watch or get in the way. Also, the bolas need a mix ot blood and sand, but given the part of the cow you’re gonna have for lunch, no slaughter is coming. And a rope can be plaited in turns.” “Blood and sand?” Phil blinks, ignoring the passage about the kitchen. “Well, not stones, unless you mean to cripple horses.” Conveniently, Henry’s bag contains a piece of plaiting with an extra length of worm-pale rawhide strips. The firepit provides a cauldron to macerate them and a forked stick to fasten the beginning of the rope. Ah, child’s play! — the round braid scheme seems a no-brainer, but the tightening is far from it. What Bronco Henry’s fingers, dark and sturdy, are doing with authoritative ease, takes double effort from Phil. Even so, the difference in density and uniformity of workmanship is obvious. Phil is puffing loudly. He's angry at himself and, although Bronco doesn’t say a word, unbraids a clumsy strand up to the point where his mentor has stopped, trying again. And again. “Leave it be,” Henry gives his forearm a gentle squeeze without a mention of pathetic blisters on Phil's phalanges, unaccustomed to the new skill. “Let the muscle memory sink in.” “What else is there to do?” Phil grumbles, a fidget he is. “Watch and see. All this beautiful range. Look at the cows, how they can stare. Are they smarter than you?” Henry sniggers, impish flickers in his eyes, and Phil’s breath catches at such a brazen twist of logic. “As if they could think of anything except their cud,” he resents. “Then you, as a thinker, are more than equipped for the task. The cloud over there. What does it look like?” “A cloud,” Phil goggles at Henry somehow turned into a moron. “And I see an angel with a broken wing. Now, what’s your say about the mountains? Right in front of you?” “Boring. Every hill the same.” “Look at the shadow.” Suddenly, a shape jumps out at Phil, as though it has been purposefully stenciled just for him. It's a dog, sharp-muzzled and sharp-fanged; back coiled, maw open in a chase. Once seen, can’t be unseen. “A dog,” he exhales in astonishement. “Barking.” “Exactly,” Henry laughs. “Poor wretches, they who have no time to stand and stare.” “By this reasoning, it’s the rich who are the poorest,” Phil snarks. “You nailed it. Here’s one more definition of bronca: not to have what you deserve. A permanent mood of a common Argentine.” “But you are not a common Argentine,” Phil points out cautiously. He’s so eager to learn about Henry’s past, about his family. But heroes have no past, and Bronco Henry seems perfectly cut out for this vacancy in the world of one excessively intelligent farmboy. “I’m a citizen of the world,” wraps up the soon-to-be-hero.   Time drags on, like rawhide in Henry’s hands. The herdsmen spend the afternoon looking for similarities in the surroundings, amused by each other’s poignant witticisms and outright goofballing. Until Henry sees the cows begin to fuss. “Whew, haven’t they grazed it off,” — with a concerned look, he casts aside a stalklet he’s been nibbling himself. “Now they think the grass is greener under a neighbor’s nose. Let’s get’em moving to a new stand.” Two riders succeed in shuffling the herd, for the animals that lagged behind to get earlier access to food. “And the last shall be first and the first last,” Phil nasalizes pompously. “But still,” he wonders, “how’s that your bay is so obedient? Even without a saddle! You just tamed him yesterday.” “Let’s see,” — a slow white-toothed smile comes over Bronco Henry’s face every time he has a chance to surprise. He dismounts, and so does Phil. “Try to budge your one with your hands. Don't push. Convince him to change place.” Henry presses a hand against Phil’s shoulder. The touch is weighty, soft and permeating. Phil steps aside unthinkingly. When Phil attempts to reproduce it, the palomino seems rooted into the ground, determined not to give an inch. Bronco gathers his lips as he strains to remain considerately serious, but a warm smile is fluttering under his lashes, thick and fluffy like a horse’s. Henry puts his hand on top of Phil’s. This time everything comes out naturally: the gelding moves with a phlegmatic, could-not-care-less attitude. Phil, delighted, tests other areas and vectors. Shoulder, withers, elbow, ribs, point of hip. The palomino licks his lips and gets into the game. “Horses actually like to learn,” Bronco comments. “Don’t hurry, don’t get mad, praise him enough, and there you are. Fancy one more shtick?” Phil gives him a sullen look from under his brows, mouth twisted in a practiced Manly Smirk. He is not to be talked to like he’s a child, especially when boasting so blatantly. Bronco Henry slides a generous hand up his bay’s nose, then to his cheek, and — one more bit of magic — the horse leans into the hand. The left one lands on a glossy shoulderblade, the right one lets off; in pursuit of caress, the bronc cross-steps to the left of Henry. The game is the same, only the touch does not force out but… entices? “It’s a hoax,” Phil protests. “You must have baited, or conditioned him, whatever.” “Whatever,” Bronco turns around. And places the flat of his hand on Phil’s chest. It feels so hot, even through the flannel of his shirt, but only for a moment. Then that spreading, ticklish heat pulls away by a hair, as if the palm is sucking in the skin, unwilling to lose contact. At least, Phil is unwilling. He steps forward, confusion and challenge on his face. A new warming spot leads his shoulder up and backwards. Phil twists his torso to follow it. At half-turn the first palm meets his forehead. Phil closes his eyes and relaxes into it, head rolling sideways, neck stretched out, body supple as clay in careful hands. A lifted elbow unfurls an arm into a long smooth line. Shoulderblades involve the spine into a flowing wriggle of eights and esses. Ribs arch up just like Henry’s, when he danced. “You’re amazing,” answers Henry to the thought. “You could dance.” “Not nearly like you, which means — never.” Phil had no idea of a not-so-distant future. How he would slam the doors against the walls, rushing out of a saloon, when Bronco Henry threw a handful of coins at the fiddler’s feet and, clapping up the notorious heartbeat rhythm, turned some Scottish reel into his trademark pampa sorcery, only to bring its whirlwind down onto a broad who had the cheek to ask the Latin beau to dance. So he danced — overwhelming, luring, cornering. She could but clutch at her skirts and hold the distance emanating like a roaring wave in front of him, neither allowing to approach, nor letting escape. But now, two handsome lads are standing face to face; Phil’s breath is heavy, as if he’s been galloping. Henry tosses his head askance, shaking off an invisible fly. The night watch appears in sight. To Phil’s terrified exaltation, Bronco Henry brings him over to dine with the hands. Reluctantly, those find a stool for the fancy pants — at the very end of the table. Next evening, by virtue of the morning’s milk yield, he receives a heartier welcome, but still sticks to the place he’s warmed up. He isn't yet worthy to sit next to Henry.