Lancer Style
Scott helps himself when he aids two Civil War veterans.
Note: To the best of my knowledge and belief, this story is fair use of copyrighted material, as there is no commercial use and no loss of potential market or value of the original material will occur
Murdoch deployed them from one end of the horse fair to the other. The objectives were to find new breeding stock to cross with their established lines, as well as some green potential stock horses. The fair was huge, with all ages and sizes of animals. Some even seemed to meet Murdoch Lancer's high standards.
Scott saw the pair near the end of his designated row. The two dark bays stood quietly, with a rear legs cocked, seemingly oblivious to the hustle and bustle. Older horses, thin, with a rash on their backs. Too old for what they were looking for. Scott was about to pass on when he noticed the brand on one of the hips. The dealer, noticing him pause, put on a false cheerful expression and approached when he saw Scott tilt his chin in inquiry.
"Tell me about these horses."
"Oh, these-well with a little care they would be fine for all sorts of uses. These are army surplus, used in the war, then in training for cavalry recruits. Yes, they still have some years of use in 'em."
Scott nodded politely, a cool gesture indicating dismissal, while hiding a multitude of feeling. The dealer, seeing some others wander by, moved off to more promising prospects.
Cavalry horses. This brought memories for Scott, back to the beginning. He sat several horses during his army career, terrified animals desperate to bolt but for the feel of his commands and reassurance through hands, seat, and legs, later standing calmly in battle for trust of him. A misplaced trust. They had died under him while trusting that he would keep them safe. Even more so than his men, with their cognition of battle, he had led his mounts to their slaughter. After the first two, he stopped naming them. It was easier to deal with the loss of these comrades if they were anonymous. Years later, he still had not named his horses, none back in Boston, not the first bay he rode at Lancer, nor the chestnut he rode now.
He chirped softly, and both heads came up, ears forward, examining him with a calm and interested eye. No wonder they had been dozing. As war horses, and veterans, the commotion of the horse fair made little impression. A soft nose pushed at a pocket, seeking a treat. They were not totally broken down by use then. Someone had taken good care of them until recently.
Scott beckoned the dealer again. "I'll take them." He broke a Lancerian rule by not bothering to dicker, paying what was both too much, and too little in compensation.
Scott's wisdom was immediately questioned when his father and brother saw him, leading the two middle aged horses beside him. Johnny had a sleek filly in tow for a broodmare prospect, and Murdock was followed by some hands with some young stock horses.
"What've ya got there, Scott? Some of them Eastern race horses?" Johnny was snickering at his brother's presumed ignorance.
Murdoch was typically blunter. "Scott, we needed some young horses, and these are old geldings to boot. What on earth would we do with them?"
"They've done good work in the past." Saved some lives in the process, and helped school some more lives after.
"That's fine, but what about now, what good are they now?"
Just like some broken down soldiers, finished after serving a cause. Hadn't that been enough? Scott answered tightly "I'll give it some more thought when they get some more weight on."
"This isn't what I want money spent on! Scott-"
"I'll pay for them out of my own share." His anger was rising, and his words even more clipped. Johnny, more than Murdoch was now watching Scott closely, as if noticing that something more was going on here.
"-And clearly they need some care. Do you think we should spare some hands to nurse some old horses when there's-"
"When there's a ranch to run!" Scott's words were no longer clipped at the end, he was snapping them off at the start. "I'll take care of them myself. Anything else?"
Father and son stared at each other, before Murdoch grunted and turned away. "Suit yourself. Just don't let it get in the way of other chores."
Despite a background of wealth and servants, Scott had long known how to take care of horses. When he was very young, he had been given his first pony. He loved the pony, and wanted the pony to like him. The household's groom had explained that horses and ponies liked the people who fed them, spoke quietly to them, groomed them, and made sure they felt well after a long day's work. Scott learned how to brush and talk to horses, and the lonely boy thought of his succession of ponies as his friends.
To his present embarrassment, he found that his knowledge of horse care was still limited regarding their needs for a pasture. He had been about to turn them out in the best pasture "my third of it" in counterattack to Murdoch's latest grumble, when Cipriano politely reminded him that a thin, hungry horse suddenly turned out to rich pasture could colic. Scott sheepishly thanked the foreman, aware that the greenhorn label would stick that much longer.
He endured, or rather ignored, that family jokes about his folly, until most became accustomed to the fattening animals grazing in successively better pastures as an eccentricity of the Eastern-bred son. Murdoch still frowned at the perceived sentimentality and impracticality. Scott bore the adverse opinions with his usual stoic dignity. Eventually, kindhearted Teresa made some ointment for the horses' rash, and their skin began to clear.
Johnny was next to succumb. He sought out his brother, after listening to Murdoch's latest jibe and watching the cool gaze in response. Scott heard the jangle of the rowels coming up behind him as he leaned over the fence, watching the horses. He didn't turn, and heard the sound of boots scuffling in the dirt where Johnny stood.
Johnny figured these horses were important to his brother, for reasons he wasn't saying. He struggled for a moment to find the words, still facing his brother's turned back. Now he leaned up alongside Scott on the fence.
"Maybe they can be babysitters, huh? Put 'em in with the weanlings, help them settle down."
This got a reaction, a turn of the head, and a small smile of gratitude at the gesture that acknowledged there was a reason for Scott's actions, if not yet an understandable one.
"I think you could be right, brother. A calming influence too, on any green horse being trained for a variety of tasks."
The horses continued to recover, and Scott enjoyed seeing the shine on the dark bay coats, and watched the horses as they learned again to play, and chase each other around the pasture.
His own progress in becoming a capable rancher had its starts and stops. He usually managed to have faith in himself, that he had survived much worse, and that he would learn it in time as long as he kept at it. But his latest foolish mistake, reflecting his ignorance of cattle, was made in front of family and ranch hands, and set him back. Frustrated, he paused by the pasture to watch his horses relaxing, until they noticed him and came trotting to the fence to greet him.
Cavalry horses. Horses, which, after surviving a war, were used to train recruits. He knew what that meant. He wondered if they could still do it. He wondered if he could still do it.
There was a time when he could handle a height of five to six feet, but it had been a few years now, and the horses themselves were older. He decided a height of three feet or so would probably work for a first effort.
Scott set up the rails himself, energized by the thought and memory. He found the saddle pads, and long reins, and lunged both horses. They were eager, willing, and remembered. They, at least, would have no trouble.
He vaulted up on one, drawing his knees up and placing one foot on the back of one horse, then the other foot on the back of the second horse, finally standing up. He gathered the double set of reins, and clucked at the horses to move them out, Roman style.
They started at a brisk walk, then cantered, and galloped at his urging. He kept his knees bent, holding his balance standing on the backs of two galloping horses, and circled around toward the rails.
Scott felt transported then, back to his training days in the army, before anyone had died, and they were all still full of idealism and shared purpose. Riding Roman style was no easy feat, and he relished and recalled now the feeling of accomplishment, that he was competent and could master something so difficult, nothing that a mere greenhorn could ever do. His confidence and exhilaration soared along with the horses as they cleared the first of the rails, with him still standing, and circled around toward the second jump.
He had the sensation of being watched, and heard yells of enthusiasm from the vaqueros who were watching him ride. He took the second fence and eased up, seeing his father and brother along the fence.
Murdoch's face was a combination of fury and fear. Johnny was grinning. Scott could hear their father shouting the tune this time, over Johnny's more placating tone.
Scott couldn't stop smiling, largely ignoring his father's rants about his son's rumored intelligence and rash behavior. Nothing would spoil this. He had slid back down to sit on one of the horses, and proceeded to take them back to the barn for a rubdown. Murdoch had stalked back to the hacienda, leaving Scott with Johnny's quiet parting words.
"Ride free, brother."
Scott had ridden free, free of a number of things, worries and demons. Tonight, he vowed, he would name all of his horses.
Note: For a good example of Roman style cavalry riding, check videos of the John Wayne movie "Rio Grande." Actors (and horsemen) Ben Johnson and Harry Carey, Jr., along with Claude Jarman, Jr, really did the actual riding in the Roman style riding scene.