Saddle Up(38)

“What’s his story?” Keith asked, nodding to the horse.

“That’s one of ’em they gathered up from the Fort McDermitt Reservation last year,” Jim answered.

“I heard about that one. There was a big controversy surrounding it.”

“Yeah, the Paiute claimed ownership of all the horses and were going to sell them off to the kill buyer, but over a hundred of ’em were unbranded. When the activists got wind of it, it all turned into a major shit storm, with everyone suing everyone else. In the end, the mustangs were separated out and shipped over to the BLM in Fallon.”

“No doubt many once were tribal horses,” Keith said. “They bred some fantastic color in those herds. Markings like this horse has were greatly valued. He should bring a real good price at auction.”

“That he would,” Jim agreed, “if only we could lay our hands on him.”

“What do you mean?” Keith asked.

“We’ve had ’im almost three months,” Jim replied, “but so far none of us has been able to do a damned thing with ’im. Still can’t even touch the ornery SOB.”

“Three months? And you still can’t touch him?” Keith remarked in surprise.

“Yup. The whole thing’s an experiment gone bad.”

“What do you mean experiment?” Keith asked, now watching the would-be horse tamer more critically. There was nothing technically wrong in his approach, but the animal was obviously not receptive. At all. Its entire body language declared mistrust and simmering aggression—the defensive behavior of a herd stallion. It was then Keith noticed. “He’s not cut? Since when did they start sending you stud horses?”

“That’s the experiment I was talking about. The activists made such a stink about the particular genetics of this herd that they got a court injunction barring the BLM from gelding the stallions. Given no other choice, they decided to try chemical castration.”

The horse suddenly reared and struck out with a foreleg, missing the man’s head by mere inches. It was only the inmate’s reflexive nosedive that saved him from the striking front hooves. Watching over his shoulder, he was quick to scramble back to safety.

Jim heaved a sigh of frustration. “Least no one got hurt this time. You might as well just load him up and take ’im back with you to PVC. He’s a certified outlaw. Even if they take his balls outright, this horse is never gonna be adoptable.”

Keith was struck by how similar those words matched what his family had once said of him—that he would never be good for anything. The school counselor had agreed, labeling him an intractable delinquent. When he left for the rez, his stepfather’s parting remark was “good riddance to the little bastard.”

“What’s it gonna cost me?” Keith blurted.

Jim scratched his jaw. “Whaddya mean?”

“How much to take him off your hands? I want to adopt him.”

“You’re kidding, right? That horse is gonna kill somebody.”

“Then I’m dead serious,” he quipped.

“You’d be crazy to take him on,” Jim insisted.

“Maybe I am.” Keith shrugged. “Or maybe I just have a yen to own a sacred horse. We Injuns are kinda funny that way.”

“You really want that renegade stud?”

“Said so, didn’t I?” It was stupid as hell, but looking at the horse was like seeing himself, or who he would have been. He had no doubt that if he hadn’t left New York, he’d have ended up in juvenile detention. Only his grandfather’s patience, the freedom, and the wide-open spaces of Wyoming had saved him from that fate.

“It’s your neck, I s’pose.” Jim shook his head with a sigh. “Minimum adoption fee is a hundred twenty-five.”

“Will you take cash?”

“Sure ’nuff. Cash is real money.”

“What are you doing?” Miranda asked.

“Buying the horse,” Keith replied with a shrug.

“But why? Haven’t you said all along that you don’t believe in mustang adoption? What are you going to do with him?”

“Dunno yet. Maybe I’ll gift him to my grandfather.”

“Why?” Miranda asked. “Is black and white so uncommon?”

“It’s not so much the color combination as his markings. A horse like this is considered sacred in our culture. The dark place on the top of his head is called a medicine hat, and the splash of color on his chest is a war shield. These markings were highly prized by war chiefs and shaman,” Keith explained. “I have a few things to take care of,” he told Jim. “I’ll come back and pick him up in a couple of hours.”

“Suits me. I’m just happy to have him out of here. C’mon.” He clapped Keith on the shoulder. “You’ve still gotta do the paperwork.”

*

Thirty minutes later, Keith and Miranda left the prison. Her boots felt more like lead the closer she got to her car. “Thank you for bringing me out here, Keith. It was very enlightening. This whole experience has been.”

“Did you get everything you wanted?” he asked.

She paused. Everything she wanted? No. No, she didn’t get nearly enough of what she really wanted. She wished she could voice even half of what was in her heart, but he referred only to the film. As far as that went, she’d accomplished all she’d set out to do, filming the horse gather, the processing, and had even recorded some of the inmates training the horses. She should be elated with her successes, but her heart was as heavy as her feet.