21
WHEN WE COULD, Virgil liked to take the horses out and run them so’s to keep their wind good. On Sunday morning, while Allie and Laurel were in church, we were in the hills back of Bragg’s old spread, which was now the Lazy L.
The Appaloosa stallion was still there with his mares. He looked at us, stiff-legged, as we sat our horses on the west flank of a hill. He tossed his head.
“Smells the geldings,” I said.
“Stallions don’t like geldings,” Virgil said.
“Wonder why?” I said. “Ain’t no competition.”
“Maybe he don’t know that,” Virgil said.
“But you and I both seen a stallion attack a gelding without no mares around. Gelding minding his own business.”
“Maybe the stud just don’t like the idea of geldings,” Virgil said.
“Can’t say I’m all that fond of it myself,” I said.
“Probably don’t smell like a mare,” Virgil said. “And don’t smell like a stallion, and he don’t know what it is.”
“Creatures don’t seem to like things they don’t know what it is,” I said.
The stallion moved nervously around his herd of mares. Head up, tail up, ears forward. One of the mares was cropping grass a few feet away, separate from the herd. The stallion nipped her on the flank, and she closed with the other mares.
“Stays right around here,” Virgil said.
“Why you suppose he keeps them here?” I said. “Lotta herds drift.”
“Good grass,” Virgil said. “Water, lotta shelter in the winter.”
“Not much competition, I’d guess.”
“I dunno, see a couple new scars on him,” Virgil said. “One on his neck there, and one on his left shoulder.”
“Could be wolves,” I said.
“Looks like horse to me,” Virgil said.
“Ain’t seen no other wild horses around here,” I said.
“Maybe somebody rides a stud,” Virgil said. “And it wandered.”
“Lotta work being a stud,” I said.
“It is,” Virgil said.
“Gets a lot of humping,” I said.
“Wonder if it’s worth it,” Virgil said.
“He keeps at it,” I said.
Another mare strayed, and the stallion dashed around the herd with his head low and his neck out flat, and drove her back.
“Worth it to him, I guess,” Virgil said.