The Bronc Tamer

The magazines have blown Phil’s mind completely. He is overwhelmed with full-body visions of Henry; in the solitude of his room — the true privilege of wealth — he milks himself dry, struggling to strangle them out of his system. A short break for exhausted flesh slowly brings back his ability to think. Like Indian arrowheads that Phil collects about the ranch, he lays out the arrows of jealousy on the velvet of post-gratification blues. Of course, people of Bronco Henry’s scale belong to the whole world. To all and to none. Who is Phil, and who is he to Henry, to suffer over the fact that others are snapping up fractions of his unattainable object of worship! But... how much unattainable? By that last photo, so vivid and human, Henry was giving a sense that maybe he was made not just for being admired from a distance. Cowboys don’t care about Greek letters and diplomas. Strong, however lanky, Phil decides to double down on athletics. By the end of semester, having turned sixteen, he likes himself a lot more. Now his train is pulling to the platform, and Phil is gladdened to see Fatso’s mug drift along out there. The brother’s wearing a petersham greatcoat and a bowler hat, like a grown-up; a shorter warm jacket is waiting over his arm. A trunk slings out of the carriage, next leaps down Phil. “Whoa,” George acknowledges, as he pats around Phil’s back. “Yeah,” Phil confirms proudly. After his odious escapade, rumored throughout the college, Phil has had enough silence. He is jesting for two: noticing Fatso’s new outfit, his gain in height and weight, a fresh scuff on the side of the wagon. The coachman is Grey Harry, an old hand. Indeed, why should there be one Bronco Henry?.. An ensuing, piercing, long-suppressed consideration strikes Phil. For the winter time extra hands are dismissed. There remain only those who’ve given good account of themselves. The judgement is made by the foreman. The hilly road is impossibly long, but it’s just the beginning. Next follow the reunion with the Old Folks, the sight of a monstrous decorated tree in shiny baubles, and the holiday dinner. The train trip has consumed the Christmas night, thank you very much, but there’s no way to bypass exchanging gifts. Phil hasn’t bothered much with the choice. He’s brought Holland gin for the Old Gent, a stack of “Vogue” for the Old Lady, and a bow tie number five for George. Which he presents right away in their room, lifting it from the box like a mouse by the tail, to wiggle it in front of Fatso’s stubby nose. Can’t help it, when that venerated symbol of maturity makes his little brother look like a contended cat. And George is happy — with the gift, with Phil. What Phil really loves about the silly slug, is the latter’s utter lack of malice. “Would you like a bath, for once? It’s just been heated,” Fatso wheedles. Phil has a think... and gives in. Damn, it feels good! Both bedroom doors are locked; fatigue dissolves along with sweat. The haunting scent of powder and perfume is almost indistinguishable to his nose, frozen en route and puffy from warm steam. Phil is taking time to actually acquaint with his new body. Corns and nicks on his hands, earned during the summer, have almost come off — to Phil’s substantial disappointment. How he would fantasize about the other pair of rugged hands all over his skin! But what if Henry used to pose just to make both ends meet, when he had left home?.. Bronc-busting women, like that dancing wench, in his spare time. Enlightened students never went into detail about the technology of same-sex coupling, nor even mentioned such relationships. But the array of “Physical Culture” was interspersed by “Art Reviews”, that featured also damsels, in attitudes so provocative that the common destination of the magazines was undoubtedly obvious. Cowboys, for their part, should they desire to label someone as a weakling, availed themselves of quite a range of insulting synonyms and phraseology. No sooner would Phil commit a slightest hint at his not-so-platonic feelings for Bronco Henry, an epitome of masculinity, he’d be in trouble. That is, if Henry is still here at all. George has apparently ducked out to the kitchen — to help around, to ogle at the maid, and to piece. To be fair, he’s not exactly a lard-ass: it’s just an unlucky combination of big bones and baby fluff, already thickening into the constitutional stuff (taken after their grandfather). Phil, as an honorary traveler, sleeps as much as he can. Then he claws at his banjo till the evening, habitually rolling from lonely suspended notes to a frenzied commotion of variations. He can’t wait to have served out, and by the moment when Fatso comes back for that ridiculous bow tie, Phil is clad in his cowboy wrap-arounds, shabby but washed and cleaned. Georgie-boy only whistles, wondering what the Old Folks would say. “Phil, darling, look at you! How you have grown!” the Old Lady exclaims theatrically. “In the physical sense — definitely,” the Old Gent hums. From the dean’s letter, the Burbanks have derived the most favorable impression of their son’s studies, minus the particulars of his demeanor. Even if the fraternities have fallen through, the faculty still looks to a new building, a swimming pool or whatnot. The flattered parents have therefore prepared what they hold as a special surprise for the successor of the lineage. Upon finishing oohing and aahing over each other’s presents — a meerschaum pipe and emerald earrings — as though they haven’t picked them together, — the Old Folks patiently wait for George to unwrap the parcel paper fondly, and for Phil to tear it off. A gold turnip watch on a chain — for the elder, and, a silent request to be more vigorous and virile, an expensive hunting knife for the younger one. The brothers exchange glances. Needless to say that, as soon as they get to the kids’ room, they will swap. When asked about friends and hobbies, Phil answers with his mouth full, and they leave him alone. The Old Folks have got enough matters to discuss between themselves: the benefits of the Gold Standard, the first outcomes of the annexation of Hawaii, Joseph Conrad’s new novel and Theodor Dreiser’s literary debut. The ranch routine is not an appropriate subject. Year after year, everything is the same. Oxen and cash cows are sold out, driven to the “power”, this time with Phil’s direct participation. Dry cows are butchered one by one. Youngsters are weaned, for the mother stock to have a rest. Breeding bulls are kept warm: just feed’em and water’em and do the mucking out. The Christmas pie and goose were for yesterday. Today’s table is boasting veal with pineapples and a cream pudding with fresh strawberries. Phil pokes out a berry, fiddles with it, then tosses it high to catch it with his mouth. “You’re evidently looking forward to a winter job,” the Old Gent frowns. “What would you like to be this time? A wood chopper? A water boy? A shepherd?” “Shepherd would do,” Phil looks up with put-on defiance. “Fair enough. Alright, head off to your mates.” Phil grabs the treat that he’s placed at the mantelpiece, namely, two pounds of Virginian tobacco. Nearly bouncing, he opens the doors to the back dining room: “Hiya!! Surprise?” In a perfect world, the foreman is to be congratulated specially, but an offering too simple would belittle Black Bill, and a costly one would do the same to Phil Burbank. Phil observes politesse by handing the whole chunk to Bill to dispense. For Bronco he has saved the best of the cigars he’s been endowed with. Cuban, “Cohiba”, genuine. But Bronco is not there. The room is cold, reeking of booze, strange and unwelcoming, even despite the hands’ expressions of respect. Cheers, Fancy pants, from the Warmlands to Dullsville! Ain’t chickened out, ain’t gotten a big head at the varsity! C’mon, cop a squat! Ten rogues, reduced to maintenance staff, rewarded by unlimited time for leatherworking, roping, wood carving and barrel pissing — a highly intellectual competition in riding slalom among the barrels, diligently sprinkling each with urine. Plus Bill and Phil, equaling twelve flocky clots of tobacco. Phil sleeks down a rollie. “And who’s out there camping?” he asks Grey Harry sitting next to him, as casually as possible. “Rough Rudy an' Bob the Whistle with the growers. The Twins, caring for the calved. And Bronco Henry way down yonder, shepherding.” Ever so lazily, Phil smokes the rollie to the end, and gets packed for the night. “Tell the Old Folks I’m gone shepherding,” he lords it over Fatso.   The snow is drifting low against the palomino’s hooves. Phil is wearing his super-Stetson, a sheepskin-lined jacket, well-fitted jeans, warm boots and wooly chaps. He’s also armed with the new knife, safety matches, a steel mug and a spoon. His bedroll is tightly secured to the saddle. He is bound for the ricks at the distant hayfield, where sheep and lambs are kept in winter. Brooding, he is pecking at his own heart, like a magpie at the back of a neglected ox. How would Bronco Henry receive him? A campfire is twinkling in the dark. As Phil is approaching it, he goes weak with tremor: visceral, bone-deep. It develops a rhythmical pattern, and before Phil can discern a trifolded figure at the highlighted background of the tent, he recognizes it’s a kind of music. Otherworldly and mystical, unlike anything he’s ever heard. Faintly reminding of the sounds of banjo, but more even and drawling. Phil breaks into lope; the music fades. Henry takes something out of his mouth, thrusts it into his pocket, and his hug is so broad, so profound, so sincere, that a clawed magpie foot eases on Phil’s heart. Still, it could have been just southern blood, the Argentine way. “Hey!” “Hey.” Bronco sits down again, stirs the fire. Phil collapses onto a log, stripped of bark, by his side. “What was that?” “Ah. A jaw harp. Wanna try?” Henry holds out a brass buckle in the shape of a miniature horseshoe, ending with two parallel prongs, a narrow steely tongue attached between them. He clenches the prongs between his teeth, strums the tongue with his finger, and a low thrum invades the prairie. Phil snatches at the instrument proposed, avid to play. Vibration tingles in his teeth, palate and chest. Savoring it, he dissolves into the sound, becomes the sound. He can alter the timbre by repositioning his lips and tongue, feeling his brain displaced by thickened honey. He wants to go on, and on, until he is hardly awake. “Boy, you’re done. Come to the tent.” All the sleepiness is off. Both crawl into their bedrolls, and until the break of dawn, Phil is listening to Henry’s gentle breaths and the occasional snorts of their horses.   Two weeks with Bronco Henry are made of new horse tricks, corn mush — polenta — with bits of hashed lamb (the bulk is hanging high on a pole, so as not to lure coyotes), and a jaw harp to share. The shepherds’ duties are no burden, scarcely more than giving out hay, or breaking ice at the waterhole. Only once there was a snowstorm; herding scattered animals together — that was challenging. “Geez, today’s the thirty-first. The New Year’s coming,” Phil remarked then. “Time to worship Pachamama,” Henry winked mysteriously. Haven’t you been fed by Mother Earth? Your turn now, to stave off cold and ailments. In the dead of winter, July 31, start by cleansing the house and the barns with grass fume. Then, at night, gather your family and follow to the nearest brook. With a knife, dig a burrow in the ground and stuff it. Ritual food, normal food, a dried vicugna embryo (actually any cattle would do, but vicugna’s known as more efficacious). Shower that all with alcohol, treat with tobacco smoke, powder with coke, and press it with a white stone, in order not to miss the place next year. With the dawn, tie black'n'white wool around your left wrist and right ankle: that’s against death. Come back singing and drumming for a week-long drinking party. Ah, and don’t forget to cut off some tails of current year’s young lambs, to be adorned with green, red, yellow wool. Yellow is for water. “I believe the Earth is not too picky. Compare the size of the pit and the area of the ranch. It’s the attitude that matters, isn’t it?” With these words Bronco cuts a hole in the soil with Phil’s knife, puts a lump of mush there, and, having issued a few silent coughs from his throat — Phil would never manage to blow such impeccable ringlets of smoke — completes it with a dying cigar. “As for coming back dancing, I think you’d rather skip that part.” The tail’s at hand, too. Thanking the lamb that gave them food, Henry winds bright-colored woolen threads around the piece.   On the last morning before Phil’s departure, the new-fallen snow is marked with imprints of moose hooves. Phil is roused. They could hunt down a moose! What an impressive finale of the date! Bronco weighs his revolver. Well, if he makes a tidy shot, they won’t get hurt. Tracking and chase take the whole day. In the dusk both of them fall into a rimy bog, getting drenched to the skin, but the moose is defeated. In culmination of their grapple with nature, a blizzard assails them. One can’t see one’s own hand. The wind is slashing at the eyelids, setting needles of nonmelting ice into the ears; even breathing is pain. “Do you know a proverb: two Indians under one blanket ain’t getting frozen?” Bronco’s bedroll is undone and spread, Phil’s one serves as the blanket. Iced-up clothes are removed. The horses under their covers huddle together, downwind from the hill. Phil, shivering, curls into a ball. Spine oval, every string exposed, — spectacular. Bronco Henry, barely warmer than Phil, snuggles up to him, embracing from behind, so close, his naked body pressed against Phil’s back. Henry’s a bit shorter, and his breath is violent, hot and heavy on Phil’s neck. His crotch is rubbing in between Phil’s thighs and buttocks. Phil, just past the fear of death, stays transfixed with desire; Bronco lies just as still, taking desire for fear. Yet his body has a will of its own. Henry’s manhood twitches and engorges, stroking up Phil’s inner thigh. A congealed Phil is slow to realize what’s happening, and when he does, he’s burning up with fever. At the moment, Bronco Henry’s hard and blazing length is filling up the pass between Phil’s legs. Phil shudders. God. Please. Touch me. Henry doesn’t move. He has no access to Phil’s thoughts. He is scared himself, so he pretends that it’s just a reaction to safety, warmth and closeness. Phil does not believe it for a second. He wanted proof. He’s got it. But what he should do next… he doesn’t know. A tear of relief trickles down from a corner of his eye, and sleep steals over him.   What a scandal it made! Phil was late for the train, got an earful of threats to be left at college for the summer program, and left he was (the Old Gent never disavowed the letter he had sent irately to the dean). But the moose liver was eaten successfully, the carcass given to the dogs, and the head was sent to the taxidermist, for its exuberant horns to decorate the living room. In retribution, Phil did not come home for the winter. He was sure there’d be no sight of Bronco Henry anymore.