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Show 71 clinging to their manes. We practiced Ken Maynard mounts, running up behind, a leap to the horse's rump, land on your hands and vault on forward. When it worked. Careful of the family jewels. The previous autumn we had left the horses alone, busy with threshing and digging spuds and football, except for Dom. At least he said he had dropped over the hill to our place and had ridden them all. Mo, he didn't ask nobody's permission, he just took any horse he wanted, threw a bridle on it and rode. Why not? he challenged me, swaggering for the town boys with their clean hands and the farm boys with manure ingrained. Nobody else rode them; why shouldn't he? I'm sure the Falsettis didn't even having a riding bridle. What about that big red horse, that sorrel? I asked him, suddenly malicious. There wasn't a sorrel in the bunch. "I bet you ain't ridden him." "Sure I have. I've ridden 'em all." "Really? That sorrel? You know the one I mean, that big red stallion." "Hell yes." "I don't know how you even caught him." "I cornered him. Just bunched 'em up in a corner and held him. I had a handful of oats in my pocket and while he was eating I just slipped the bridle on. Hell yes." "He sure is a pretty horse. I like that sorrel color." "Lot prettier'n black if you ask me." "He don't buck?" "He bucked a little but I showed him who was boss. Hell yes, now when he sees me coming he trots right over for his oats. He eats right out of my hand. All I have to do is whistle." "Really?" |
