The Bronc Tamer

From the porch or through the inner door, to get upstairs one has to cross the front dining room, inevitably passing by the space that serves as a living room. And here they are, the Old Folks. Having dined, rooted in their armchairs by the chess table in front of the furnace unlit. Seated at a non-confronting angle to each other. Always like this: hand by hand, whatever they might be thinking to themselves. The Old Gent nods at the vacant seat opposite to his. A clear sign that a carpeting is not far off. “Good afternoon, prodigal son. So what was the reason of today’s demarche?” Phil is never at a loss for words. He has developed the line of argument way back on the ride home: “Well, I do wish you long years in the prime and all that, but anyway, sooner or later I’ll have to get my hands dirty. Where am I supposed to study twisting tails, at college?” The Old Lady purses her lips. Economics, law and business — that’s what makes money. She does not want to recognize who actually performs material production. The Old Gent, though, is fully aware of the importance of live experience for managing a ranch. “All right, it’s a free country. Have a ball till autumn. Boarding with the fellows, as I understand it?” Phil nods with a blink, punctuating his choice. The Old Folks exhale subtly. However zealous about familial communion and decorum, even they need a break from Phil’s regular table retorts and pranks. As Bronco Henry’s responsibilities expand, so does Phil’s knowledge. Where the needle goes, the thread would follow. Both need each other: being an offender of the immediate superior and a next-master’s favorite, as if that weren’t enough, is too hot a potato. None of the hands is willing to get burnt by a friendship with Henry, which is just doomed to evolve in close cooperation. It’s well known among the merchants of the neighborhood that, after mustanging, new hirings are provided with front money for the kit. Bronco Henry makes a most meticulous pick of a saddle and harness for his bay. Then he helps Phil replace his English equipment with cowboy gear. Previously, Phil enjoyed no such luxury as pocket money (which was, to an extent, humiliating, yet not so that to make a riot), and now the Old Gent decided to reward his son’s ardor for ranching with unexpectable generosity. The saddle is massive, deep and spacious, with high swell and cantle and a cocky horn. How naturally and sensually Henry wraps it with his hand, how powerful and sweeping is the rocking of his hips, forward and up, as he’s adjusting to the seat rise! It painfully resembles a certain process between horses — only way more graceful, — and, with that palm on the horn, is a total reminder of what Phil himself was doing only yesterday in a hideout by the lake. But no, it doesn’t look like Henry has found out his secret. Face set, he seems completely caught up in himself, testing if the cantle is comfy enough for long cattle drives and crazy rodeos. The Burbank talent for bargaining is in both brothers’ blood. Fatso is lenient and monotonous. Like, “we both know how much it actually costs, so please, feel free to go batshit as long as you want, I’ll wait till you agree.” Phil, his exact opposite in any habit, argues with gusto and splits every hair, juggling the words of the opponents to his own avail so smartly that they finally yield for the love of art alone. After the purchase of gear, Phil still has funds for two less-than-stellar Stetsons of beaver and rabbit wool, or an all-beaver one — thin, smooth, lightweight, full-on 20X. “With all respect for your heritage, Henry, just try what a proper hat is like. It’s as good to fan a fire as to fetch some water. We also have pretty much rain and snow here, you know.” Sure, Bronco is curious. And dandy. Of all the assortment of hats he fishes out that black one, with steep curves of the brim. An impeccable framing makes his features cut in stone. He acquires a semblance to a railroad bandit, which still does not mar the general impression. “We take it,” Phil flops all he’s got left on the makeshift counter. For God’s sake, he’s already wearing one Proper Hat. Bronco Henry’s nostrils flare. He doesn’t need any handouts! But before stinging words leave his lips, Phil distracts him from the sight of cash, pointing out that Henry is making him a rope for no charge, so they are square. It’s not for his friend to know how many ropes a real 20X Stetson is worth. For once Phil has an upper hand, and it feels like pure happiness. Fence riding is a good occasion to give an airing to their handsels. Phil explores the advantage of a cowboy hackamore for neck reining, and Henry gradually trains his bay in rhythmic pace, volts and pirouettes, using more kind words than sugar. Even better these two are at galloping and sliding stops. Every time the bay’s hind hooves skid on the grass, while the front ones still stomp, Phil’s heart is bursting with admiration. All the way back they are loping. In comparison with jolty trot, it’s sheer flying. Phil can’t take his eyes off Henry’s posture, so collected and relaxed and undulating, only the black hat is floating poised. The air gets imbued with the evening flavor of withering grass, brook water, shy flowers and furtive critters. The mountains are a gilded mass of rolling surges, with the lurking shadow of the dog on its eternal hunt. Phil’s gelding was saddled by Henry; only now, left alone with the horse, having given him oats and removing the saddle in order to comb him with a spiky gauntlet and a duster, Phil marvels at the weight of the piece. After dinner, he will come back to the horse barn to practice flinging it up on his own, like Bronco did: in a spin, by the torque of the torso and push of the legs. At last, Phil swings himself into the new saddle. Creaky, with an exciting tang of leather. Mimicking Bronco Henry, he grabs the horn and budges up, standing in the stirrups. The seat rise sweetly dents between his legs. Thighs strained, butt cramping, Henry’s image before his eyes — and a few grinds suffice to pull his nerves from inside out, extorting a baffled moan and a gush of bone-wringing, belly-bending extasy out of his body. Phil reassembles himself bit by bit. The palomino gelding is chomping on his oats with philosophical indifference. Thick denim and wooly chaps let Phil trudge along to the loo unobserved in his disgrace. It was quite prudent of him to not imitate Henry’s ways, when Henry could see. The boys’ restroom only has a toilet and a washbowl. One jug of water per person, just enough to refresh one’s face, armpits and nether regions (choose any two of the three). George usually sneaks to the master bathroom, when the door that connects with their room is unlocked, and the parents’ bedroom is respectively isolated. Phil bathes in the lake all year round, except when the ice grows thick. Fatso, fully dressed, is sprawled on his bed upon the blanket, with a “Saturday Evening Post”. Would he ever take up a book, for variety? Attempting to figure out if he might somehow have betrayed himself, Phil gets as chatty as he used to be before the advent of Bronco Henry. “Bet you have lounged here all day,” he teases. “Mmhm,” — not that the sibling is miffed, rather, absorbed with another soppy or cranky one-cent-per-word nonsense. “Not even been to the lake? That’s too Fatso, even for you.” “What’s the point without you there,” George mumbles. The secret they share is a tunnel hut made of deadwood and bark, like a beaver’s lodge. A safe place to play Robinsons and trappers, to gossip about ranch life or to find fault with the Old Folks. Phil used to be the driving force of all those entertainments; no wonder his absence took all the fun out. This means that the hideout has passed into Phil’s unchallenged usage. With the lights off, the brothers undress. Waking up is insufferable: morning wood tents the blanket, the touch of a shirt sends a wave of shivers up Phil’s ribs and spine, and thank God George won’t open his eyes when Phil’s alarm clock rings, leaving him in blessed privacy. When Phil is riding, every hoofbeat goes directly to the middle seam of his jeans. Even inanimate objects conspire against his body. Having leaned recklessly at the kidneys-high sheep corral fence, Phil nearly howls as his back muscles ache with desire to be touched. Not by just anyone, but specification brings little relief. Thus Phil had survived till autumn, when, dressed in a suit, with a trunkful of ironed shirts, he was seen off to the University of California. At college, Phil immediately became a kind of a celebrity. Word of the Burbank money went ahead of him; a rancher’s agility came handy in sports; even his straight A’s were forgiven for his sarcastic wit and common sense. Fraternities were fighting for him, like for a damned prize flag, expecting if not material donations, then at least image dividends of rubbing shoulders with a Burbank. Classmates and senior students alike (ties would be ties!) jumped up to invite Phil to parties, where they indulged him with beer, cigars, or something shadier than that. Contrasting with the effervescent youths’ fawning on pretty guests from women’s seminary, Phil’s skeptical non-involvement was interpreted in a certain way. At one of selective, secretive, strictly stag parties, some well-worn magazines were passed around. “Physical culture” was the title, and the slogan read: “Weakness is a crime, don’t be a criminal!” The medium glorified cultivated bodies, which happened to be exclusively male. Brawny beaus posed bumptiously like statues of Greek gods, or with made-up ease enjoyed the nature and themselves — stark naked, save for sports gaiters and flirty fig leaves. One of the models drew Phil’s attention like a magnet. He was darker than the rest, and made great play with leather accessories: fistfighting straps, Roman sandals, a horse bridle over his shoulder, — but never turned his face more than one-quarter to the camera, offering instead a full range of views on his bold back with lean creases on the small of it, the oblate hemispheres of his buttocks, and sculpted, sinewed limbs. His hands were likewise not displayed overtly, yet long thoroughbred fingers could be discerned. Something about him seemed oddly familiar; lastly, the photographed man appeared in a close-up — lying on the grass, an elbow bend shielding his eyes from sunshine, and the other hand, reaching down beyond the frame, presumably covering his crotch. It was Bronco Henry. With a pounding heart, Phil flipped the pages till the end and passed the magazine on, not a wince, not a gesture giving away his internal turmoil. The amorous preferences of “Burr” Burbank remained unknown. Regarding fellowship, he acted even more coldbloodedly. On the final night of what they called Rush Week, when the freshmen made up their minds and wrote their choice of a fraternity on a slip of paper to be dropped in a box, Phil made his little bit of history. It was a pompous dinner at some fraternity house. The chairman had just spoken, then a professor; next, Phil took the floor, and there was clapping. “Gentlemen,” he began, and he raked the assemblage with those day-blue eyes of his. “I know, gentlemen, why you’ve asked me here. You’ve asked me here for my money. Why else would you want me, gentlemen? You don’t know one blasted thing about me, and yet you ask me to join you.” There wasn’t a sound in the room but breathing. They all might believe he would take their attention as a compliment. Phil took it for what it was. An insult. “And with that, gentlemen, I take my leave.” So he said and walked out of the dining room, out of the house. That had not spared him from any more tags, though. Before long, he was elected to Phi Beta Kappa for academic excellence.*