once. You wanted it to be a good kid horse? He could turn it into a horse a three-year-old could ride.
The thing was, the reason the horses Ras trained were so obedient and eager to please was that they were terrified of humans, and broken in spirit. They came away from his place groomed and gleaming, but with a vacant stare and a tendency to shudder when they were petted. Sometimes owners questioned Ras about that, and he had all sorts of explanations. The weather was changing, and you know how squirrelly horses can get when the weather is changing. Or they weren’t used to the owners anymore, after all they hadn’t seen them in a couple of months, but they’d get back to normal soon enough. Or they knew they were about to be moved, and horses hate being hauled. That sort of thing.
Ras never let the conversation linger long on such trivia. The thing that kept people coming back to him was performance, so he never wasted any time getting down to showing them what their horses could do now that he had worked with them so diligently.
He’d get up on the horse and ride it around, and start it and stop it and back it and make it step sideways. He’d lope it and canter it and trot it and run it at a gallop. If it happened to be a cutting horse, he’d turn some calves into the lot, and he’d do a little cutting demonstration, which never failed to please the owners. Few things in the world are as pretty and flashy as the intricate dance a fine horse does when it’s separating a calf from a herd.
At some point, Ras would go no-hands. He’d loop the reins around the pommel, and rest his hands on his thighs, and let the horse do the work on its own. He always wound up the performance by putting a kid in the saddle. He’d use one of his own if the folks hadn’t brought one along. Then he’d tell the kid what to do, and they’d go through a little replay of Ras’s original demonstration, and by that time, nobody was worrying anymore about whether the horse had a vacant stare. They’d be clapping Ras on the shoulder, and asking him how he did it, and pressing money into his ready hand.
“A horse is smart,” Ras would tell them. Smiling. “All you have to do is show it what you want, and it’ll do it, or die trying.”
So far, none of the horses that had been brought to Ras had died trying, although a few had come close.
If you wanted Ras Ballenger to work with your horse, you had to take it to his place and leave it. After all, he could put in more time with it that way, and besides, he was already set up for it.
The owners didn’t know it, but Ras’s setup included a twitch, a whip, and a place in his barn where the beasts could be cross-tied so that they couldn’t move an inch in any direction. A horse could be left for hours or days without food and water, so that it would be grateful and docile when it was finally released and given a drink. It could be tormented in any number of ways, and Ras Ballenger knew them all.
At about the same time that Samuel Lake was sitting in church wondering what was going to become of his life, a big white gelding named Snowman was standing in Ras Ballenger’s holding pen, probably wondering the same thing. Ras was standing outside the pen, leaning against the wood rails, watching the horse watch him.
They’d been like that—the two of them, watching each other—for a couple of hours now. Ever since the owner, a fellow named Odell Pritchett, from over around Camden, had dropped the horse off. Odell had explained that Snowman was green broke, but he needed some finishing work. He was a little high-headed. A little unpredictable.
Ras had assured Odell that he would do what he could. Generally, all a horse like that needed was a little experience. (He didn’t say what kind.) A lot of special attention. (He didn’t explain that, either.) What he would do was, he’d work with Snowman every day. He’d be consistent, and show him what was expected of him, and before you
The thing was, the reason the horses Ras trained were so obedient and eager to please was that they were terrified of humans, and broken in spirit. They came away from his place groomed and gleaming, but with a vacant stare and a tendency to shudder when they were petted. Sometimes owners questioned Ras about that, and he had all sorts of explanations. The weather was changing, and you know how squirrelly horses can get when the weather is changing. Or they weren’t used to the owners anymore, after all they hadn’t seen them in a couple of months, but they’d get back to normal soon enough. Or they knew they were about to be moved, and horses hate being hauled. That sort of thing.
Ras never let the conversation linger long on such trivia. The thing that kept people coming back to him was performance, so he never wasted any time getting down to showing them what their horses could do now that he had worked with them so diligently.
He’d get up on the horse and ride it around, and start it and stop it and back it and make it step sideways. He’d lope it and canter it and trot it and run it at a gallop. If it happened to be a cutting horse, he’d turn some calves into the lot, and he’d do a little cutting demonstration, which never failed to please the owners. Few things in the world are as pretty and flashy as the intricate dance a fine horse does when it’s separating a calf from a herd.
At some point, Ras would go no-hands. He’d loop the reins around the pommel, and rest his hands on his thighs, and let the horse do the work on its own. He always wound up the performance by putting a kid in the saddle. He’d use one of his own if the folks hadn’t brought one along. Then he’d tell the kid what to do, and they’d go through a little replay of Ras’s original demonstration, and by that time, nobody was worrying anymore about whether the horse had a vacant stare. They’d be clapping Ras on the shoulder, and asking him how he did it, and pressing money into his ready hand.
“A horse is smart,” Ras would tell them. Smiling. “All you have to do is show it what you want, and it’ll do it, or die trying.”
So far, none of the horses that had been brought to Ras had died trying, although a few had come close.
If you wanted Ras Ballenger to work with your horse, you had to take it to his place and leave it. After all, he could put in more time with it that way, and besides, he was already set up for it.
The owners didn’t know it, but Ras’s setup included a twitch, a whip, and a place in his barn where the beasts could be cross-tied so that they couldn’t move an inch in any direction. A horse could be left for hours or days without food and water, so that it would be grateful and docile when it was finally released and given a drink. It could be tormented in any number of ways, and Ras Ballenger knew them all.
At about the same time that Samuel Lake was sitting in church wondering what was going to become of his life, a big white gelding named Snowman was standing in Ras Ballenger’s holding pen, probably wondering the same thing. Ras was standing outside the pen, leaning against the wood rails, watching the horse watch him.
They’d been like that—the two of them, watching each other—for a couple of hours now. Ever since the owner, a fellow named Odell Pritchett, from over around Camden, had dropped the horse off. Odell had explained that Snowman was green broke, but he needed some finishing work. He was a little high-headed. A little unpredictable.
Ras had assured Odell that he would do what he could. Generally, all a horse like that needed was a little experience. (He didn’t say what kind.) A lot of special attention. (He didn’t explain that, either.) What he would do was, he’d work with Snowman every day. He’d be consistent, and show him what was expected of him, and before you
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