CHICO’S NEW STALL AT MISTY’S PLACE HAD A paddock where he could graze and play nipping games with neighbors in other paddocks. But when the afternoon wind blew off the mountains, he thought he could smell the ranch. He missed it.
In the morning, people fed the horses, cleaned the stalls, and pickup trucks started arriving. Later Joe, the barn manager, led Chico out, brushed and saddled him, and Misty appeared.
Misty meant cattle; good. But she was awfully bossy. With mixed feelings, Chico followed her toward the small pen, the one that had squeaked. She opened the gate and led him inside.
The pen was empty. Chico looked along the high wall. If this was like yesterday, one of those panels would open and cattle would come in. Only he didn’t sense cattle that close this time.
Misty warmed him up: walk, jog, lope, circles. Backup. Lots of backup. Then she turned him to face the center
of the pen, and she did something with the saddle horn. Chico felt her push lightly, and there was a tiny clicking sound. Out in the middle of the empty space, something moved.
Chico threw up his head and stared. Danger? Run? It was some kind of bird, maybe, swooping across at chest level … no, it looked more like laundry being reeled out on a clothesline, only much faster.
Abruptly, it stopped.
Chico tested the air with flared nostrils. It wasn’t alive, he decided, in spite of the way it moved. It was laundry—cloth, anyway—and it had been outdoors a long time. It didn’t have the soapy wet smell he associated with laundry, and there was only one piece, light colored, with a dark shape on it that looked like a cow’s head—
It snapped back in the other direction.
And into the middle again.
And back again.
Chico put his head down with a sigh and sniffed the ground, hoping for the scent of cattle. But there had been no cows here lately, only horses. His ears tipped out to the sides.
“Am I boring you, kid?” Misty said. “Let’s fix that.”
She touched the horn again. Chico heard the click, and with a thin clothesline squeak, the cloth snapped into
motion. Misty clapped her legs against his sides. He leaped forward, following the moving laundry.
“Good,” Misty said.
Good? She wanted him to chase it? He thundered after the small cloth, easily catching up.
Suddenly, the laundry stopped. So did Chico; not because he wanted to, but because of the way Misty sat in the saddle. It wasn’t the way Dean had stopped him. Her hand on the reins pulled back, not up, and Chico’s head stayed low, which Dean would not have liked.
Dean would want a rollback now, a swift turn on the haunches. Anticipating, Chico tried that, felt a firm leg holding him still—and then the laundry took off again, back across the pen, and Misty spun him after it.
Left. Stop.
Right. Stop.
After a few repetitions, it started to feel like a game.
More repetitions. It wasn’t a very good game. Chico was supposed to pounce after the laundry, race in a line parallel to it, never getting close; stop when it stopped, and wait for its next move. He never got to win, to go up to the laundry and pull it off the line. He’d done that once, when Dean’s fence broke and all the horses got loose in the neighborhood. He had pulled several pieces of cloth down from a line and trampled them with his front hooves,
and somebody in a house screamed. It was fun. With a snatch at the bit, with his pointing ears, Chico suggested that game to Misty. She ignored him.
Why weren’t people more creative? All right already! He had the concept. But Misty wanted more from him. Chico couldn’t figure out what, and he didn’t much care. This was as boring as circles.
Misty stopped him and patted his neck. “Good enough for your first lesson.”
First lesson? There was going to be more of this?
FOR SIERRA, THE NEXT THREE WEEKS PASSED IN a blur: school, ride the bus to Misty’s place; change her clothes, say hi to Chico, saddle Ladybird and hurry to the arena for her lesson. She worked with flags mostly, learning to sit right and stay with Ladybird’s explosive bursts of speed.
Helping Sierra saddle one afternoon at the end of the third week, Misty explained again why she used the flag so much. “It lets you practice a move over and over. A cow never makes the same move twice. And the Bird never gets bored with it, not like some horses. Girl’s got a work ethic!” She patted the mare’s neck, and Ladybird turned her head into the crook of Misty’s arm.
Ladybird never does anything like that with me, Sierra
thought. Riding a horse that loved somebody else was a good way to feel invisible.
“How does Chico like the flag?” she asked. With school, she hadn’t been able to get there in time to watch any of his lessons.
Misty shrugged. “He’s superfast and athletic, but he’s probably a little bored.”
Sierra opened her mouth, and closed it. She was just a kid, a newbie, and this was Misty Lassiter. But Chico didn’t handle boredom well. That was why he’d soured as a reining horse. She had to say it. “He’s really interested in cows.”
“Yes,” Misty said dryly. “And things still get real Western when he’s around them!”
Sierra felt herself flush. She knew that “Western” wasn’t something a cutting horse should be around cows.
“But forget Chico right now,” Misty added quickly. “This afternoon we’re simulating a cutting competition. Bring the Bird along.” She mounted another horse and rode toward the covered arena. Three other students waited outside. Sierra hadn’t gotten to know any of them yet, and she forgot the girls’ names the minute they were introduced, but she remembered the name of the tall boy, Randall.
Misty backed her horse around to face the students.
“Lecture time. Cutting is the only sport I know where you ask four of your biggest rivals to help you out in your
performance, and where you ride your heart out for somebody you’re competing against. When I talk about things getting ‘Western,’ I don’t often mean it as a compliment. But this is Western in the best sense—the cowboy ethic of friendly, good sportsmanship. So, in this lesson, focus on being good help, as well as having a good run.”
Sierra thought of her cutting posters, and the countless video clips she’d watched. Each showed one horse, one rider, one cow, dueling it out together. In reality you needed your team—a team of rivals.
Misty said, “At a show, you’ll ask four people to be your help during your run. I’ve hired your help for you today. Sierra, you’re up first, Randall and I will be your turn-back riders, and the girls will be herd holders. Then we’ll rotate.” She nodded to Joe, who opened the door and let them into the arena.
The herd holders rode down to the far end; Joe opened another gate to let the cattle in, and one of the herd holders settled them, riding back and forth in front of the cows to teach them to stay near the back wall. Then that same holder tested them, walking her horse through the herd from back to front and side to side. So much of cutting happened at a walk—again, not like the pictures.
The settler rode to her station at the side of the herd; now she was the second herd holder. Sierra looked at
Misty, who nodded for her to go ahead. “Remember, your time starts when you pass the yellow stripe on the wall. You’ve got two and a half minutes.” She and Randall positioned themselves near the center of the arena, and Sierra rode forward.
She walked Ladybird past the yellow stripe and into the herd from the right. The cattle crowded each other, each heifer trying to be the one in the middle, but none panicked. The mare moved among them as intent as a stalking heron, ears pricked, noticing each cow in turn.
Misty said, “Two and a half minutes goes by fast!”
No time to think. Holding her rein-hand chest high, Sierra turned Ladybird toward the front of the herd. She was supposed to be making her deep cut, bringing one animal out from well inside the herd, but it seemed like she had most of the cows in front of her, all walking and shoving and jostling toward the turn-back riders.
The cows on the edges of the group turned back toward the main herd. Casually. They weren’t too worried. There were three left out in the open, two Herefords and a black baldy. The baldy looked like a nice cow; bright-eyed, alert, but not hocky. She’d make a game of it, an intelligent try to get back into the herd, not stand there dumbly, or hightail it for the hills. There’s an advantage to being a ranch girl, Sierra thought. I do know cows.
She rode Ladybird toward the three, still at the same slow walk. One Hereford cocked its tail and started pooping. The other Hereford and the baldy ambled back toward the bunch. Sierra started to rein Ladybird after the cow of her choice.
“No time, Ranch Girl!” Misty called. “Poopy Pants is yours. Look happy with the cow you’ve got.”
Cutting was showmanship. No matter what happened, you tried to look like you did it on purpose. Smoothing out her expression, Sierra advanced another step toward the pooping heifer, framed her between Ladybird’s ears, and dropped her hand.
The cow’s head swiveled around and a horrified look came over her. OMG! I’m out here all alone! She made a run to the left, and Ladybird exploded into action, so fast her mane lifted from her neck in a white cloud. Sierra’s whole body jolted. She felt her hat fly off.
Ladybird raced parallel with the heifer. The heifer stopped, Ladybird stopped, and Sierra shoved back on the horn, settling herself deeper in the saddle. She curved her back, sank her weight down into the stirrups, and stared hard at the cow. She was ready now. The cow dashed right; Ladybird was on her. Wind whipped Sierra’s shirt and hair, but her body stayed supple and in sync with the horse.
The heifer stopped and turned toward the far wall, saw
the turn-back riders, and kept twirling, all the way around in a circle to face Ladybird. And twirled again. Sierra could almost hear her thinking: What should I do? What should I do? The cow made a dash at Misty, who rode toward her, slapping her thigh. The sharp sound turned the cow back to Sierra, and they dueled again, short dodges back and forth, until the cow turned and trotted away with her head up.
“And quit,” Misty reminded.
Sierra came back to reality with a start. For those few seconds, her whole brain had been taken up with that one cow. She patted Ladybird’s neck, lifted the reins, and backed her up a few steps, while the heifer they’d been working trotted around the outside of the arena and merged back into the herd.
Sierra needed to cut two more cows. She rode into the herd again, peeled off a small group from the outside edge, and moved them toward the middle of the arena. Toward her fallen hat.
A black heifer stopped to sniff the hat, legs braced, ears stiff with shock at seeing the strange object there. Sierra felt her temper rise. Why did this stupid cow have to call attention to her bad riding? You’ll pay for that, Blackie! She edged the heifer away from the group, worked her, let her back in the herd, and cut another cow. Just as she
committed, the finishing buzzer went off. Wow. Two and a half minutes wasn’t much time, but it could feel like forever.
Ladybird dropped to a walk. The herd holders left the cows and ambled forward with Sierra, the turn-back riders met them and reversed direction, and they all walked out of the arena in a group, the way they would at a real show. Someone else’s turn now. In a few minutes, Sierra would be a herd holder.
The group of riders passed by her hat—amazingly, it hadn’t been trampled—and Randall bent gracefully from the saddle, scooped it up, and handed it to her. He really was cute. Flushing, Sierra jammed the hat on her head. Granules of dirt trickled down her neck.
“A lot to like about that run,” Misty said. “Sure, you lost your hat, but you could have fallen off. I’ve done that. You took your eye off the cow for a second, is all.”
“Oh!” Sierra remembered looking down at Ladybird’s mane.
“Never look down at the horse. Watch the cow. She’s the one that knows where you’re going next. You’ve gotta forget you even have a horse under you, or you won’t.”
“Yeah.”
Misty went on. “There’s a hundred details you need to learn for competition cutting—and we’ll get to those!—but your instincts are great.”
“But—,” Sierra said. “I never did get the cow I wanted.”
“Doesn’t matter, as long as you make the judge think it’s all going according to plan.”
“Yeah, but—what if there was a cow I really needed to cut out? To give it a shot, or sell or something.”
Misty laughed. “In that case, Ranch Girl, go for that baby! But that’s real life. Competition cutting is a sport—the best in the world, in my opinion—but it’s all make-believe.”
Sierra nodded. She understood. But I’d still rather get the cow I want, she thought. She patted the mare’s golden neck. Ladybird tipped one ear back at her, then pointed it straight ahead in her reserved and regal way. Sierra got the feeling Ladybird disapproved of riders who lost their hats.
“Can I ride Chico now?” Sierra asked. Chico liked her—she was pretty sure of that—and he didn’t make her feel inferior. “I’m only a herd holder.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘only a herd holder.’ It’s an important job,” Misty said. She hesitated. “And I’m not sure he’s ready. But … who’s up next? Randall? All right with you if Sierra uses her bronco?”
Randall shrugged. “Don’t see what harm it could do.”
SIERRA! CHICO CHORTLED DEEP IN HIS THROAT. He missed her, living over here. Yes, he got ridden every
day, but Misty didn’t pamper him the way Sierra did. She didn’t have the time.
Sierra didn’t seem to have time today, either. She brushed him and saddled up quickly. She seemed agitated; now Chico started to feel that way himself.
Going into the covered arena, the quick change from sunshine to shadow half blinded Chico for a moment. He could sense cattle, dark shapes loosely grouped at the far end. Sierra headed him toward them, and for a moment panic flared along Chico’s legs. Beasts?
His vision cleared. Only cows. He’d barely had a chance at cattle here; he danced slightly, and flicked his tail. Let’s—
“No.” Sierra walked him to one edge of the herd, turned him, made him stand. Another horse stood opposite, on the other side of the cattle. Three riders approached; the turn-back riders hung back, and the third, Randall, rode into the herd. The cattle stirred around his horse. Chico wanted to stir them, too, but Sierra wouldn’t let him move. He pawed the dirt; a couple of nearby cows showed the whites of their eyes and mixed themselves deeper into the group. Misty shouted something, and Sierra backed Chico away from them.
Randall’s horse was moving some cattle—slowly, at a walk, not the way Chico would have done it, but at least that horse was allowed to do something. Sierra let Chico
move slightly forward now. They were helping Randall, but it could all go a whole lot faster—
Sierra turned her head to look at the herd. Chico felt her attention divide and weaken. The heifers paused between Randall and the turn-back riders, looking around, undecided. One swift move was all it would take—
Chico made the move! One lunge, and the heifers scattered in all directions. Chico took a gleeful bound after the nearest one, and Sierra caught him up short.
Randall turned angrily. “I can’t believe—”
“Clock’s ticking, Randall,” Misty called. “Act like you are in charge, no matter what. Sierra, keep Chico back. Wa-a-a-y back.”
Sierra turned him toward the herd. She was upset, Chico sensed. Well, so was he! All those cows got away! There was just one left. Randall and his horse went back and forth with it for a few seconds, then let it go. It trotted around the arena and dived back into the herd; Chico laid his ears back as it passed, but Sierra didn’t let him take one step toward it.
Randall played with another cow, and then the buzzer went off, and they all turned from the herd. Sierra rode Chico forward, too. The rest of the horses walked, but Chico couldn’t help prancing. All those cattle behind him, standing still. What a waste!
Randall turned to Sierra. To Chico, he sounded like Dean used to, when he was angry and trying to pretend he wasn’t.
“I guess he really is a bronco! I thought Misty was joking.”
Nobody else said anything until they were outside the arena. Then Misty beckoned to Sierra. “Ride over here with me. We need to talk.”