Unbroken
Scott rebels against a custom of the West.
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.
Scott was pleased with the treatment he received. The vaqueros who remained during the attacks respected and appreciated his defense of Lancer, and eliminating the threat of Day Pardee. They tolerated his ignorance of ranch work, but Scott knew how to listen to those with greater expertise, and how to delegate tasks. Scott was pleased that after his initial missteps of wardrobe and manner, he seemed to be fitting in well now.
The thought did not last as Lancer hired new hands who had no direct knowledge of Scott's actions against the land pirates, and viewed him as just an Eastern greenhorn. It became worse as Johnny recovered and resumed his work. While Scott was pleased at Johnny's good health, it complicated his relationship with those who worked at Lancer. Johnny was naturally feared and respected not only for his gun, but also for his skill at breaking horses. Scott found his standing slipping.
The hands were breaking another batch of horses. Scott watched as the unlucky hand, holding a single rope, went sailing through the air crash onto the ground. He was lucky, though. He got to his feet with no worse injury than to his pride, amid the laughing of the watchers.
Scott shook his head. He didn't understand the sport of this, allowing an animal such freedom to buck and throw its rider. He watched his brother next, managing to stay on until the horse gave up the bucking attempts to a cheering reaction. His thoughts were interrupted when Johnny, grinning, dismounted and climbed back up onto the fence.
"Want to go next, Scott?" Some chuckles greeted that statement, to Scott's masked annoyance.
"Johnny," scolded Teresa. "You shouldn't do that. Scott can ride, but he's never broken a horse. He could get hurt."
Now that rankled even worse, to be protected by the young girl as if he couldn't stand for himself. True, he had never broken a horse. The words of a sergeant, a master of the cavalry horses, flashed into his mind: a horse was trained every time it was ridden. The result would be good or bad depending upon what the horse experienced. Scott had certainly handled and controlled his share of panicked horses on the battlefield.
Scott's thoughts lasted only a few seconds, and he found himself climbing over the fence and heading to the next saddled horse.
"No, Scott! Johnny!" Teresa was alarmed, and that only strengthened Scott's resolve.
"Hey, now wait a minute, I didn't mean you really had to try it," Johnny actually sounded contrite and concerned.
Scott ignored them, and took the single rope and looped it around the horse's neck, tying it to the halter so it was like a single rein. He pulled the horse's head up and its nose in, and climbed into the saddle as the hands held the horse. Scott nodded to signal them to release the horse. They hesitated, and looked at Johnny.
"You want to swallow some dirt or break your neck, go ahead."
"I've no intention of doing either." He glanced at Teresa's worried face. "Save some extra pie for me." The hands released the horse.
Scott was drawing on his own experience and instruction. A horse couldn't buck much when its head was up. It could do everything else though, and this one did.
Frustrated with limited bucking, the horse tried to rear, Scott kicked hard at the hind quarters, putting the horse off balance to stop the rear. He kept the head high and forced the horse into tight circles, kicking hard again when the horse tried to sit on its hindquarters. A couple of times he whipped the head back and forth to distract the animal. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Johnny staring, then he put his chin in his palm and elbow on his knee, and kept watching.
It definitely took longer, and wasn't as showy as the rider astride the bucking horse, but Scott stayed solidly in the saddle. Eventually he saw the horse lick its lips, in a telltale sign of submission.
Scott immediately released the pressure he had applying. This was a reward and signal to the horse. He moved the now hesitant but quiet horse around the pen. He dismounted then, hiding some of his stiffness. It had been something of a workout for his legs. The hands murmured, not sure what to make of this, or whether they should publicly mock or criticize.
Johnny settled it, taking his chin off his palm and straightening up. "That ain't the style here."
Scott stared back, a firm set to his mouth and his bows raised. There were no drawn guns, but he was calling Johnny out.
"That ain't the style," Johnny repeated. He gave a curt nod, and there was a faint hint of a grin. "But it'll do."
Scott had been vindicated, in his own mind and the minds of those watching. He allowed himself a smile, to walk tall and proud out of the ring. "Whoever is next, feel free."
The pie was excellent. It was much tastier than eating crow.
Later, he had the satisfaction of watching the horse respond more quickly and obediently to further training than the horses allowed to buck. Scott had succeeded doing this task his own way, evolving into something neither pure eastern nor western, but a blend of both. Only the horse had been broken.