The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(46)

“Mornin’, Joanna!” Olin called. “This here’s an old friend—Morgan Begay.”

The man looked to be in his sixties, with a barrel chest, graying hair to his shoulders and deep brown eyes magnified by bottle-thick glasses. He wore a work shirt with a black vest and dungarees. Around his neck was a fetish necklace strung with polished stones carved into bear shapes.

“Are these your horses?” I asked him.

“From my herd.” His voice was deep, with a clipped accent.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Begay’s from the other side of the Mountain,” Olin said. “He’ll be leavin’ these horses awhile. Wanna try one?”

“Now?” I asked.

“Which one you like?”

It had been so long since I’d sat a horse, I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t just mount up and slide off the other side again. I took a step back.

“Buck up, now,” said Olin.

I looked the horses over. The first three were a handsome blood bay, a pinto and a big roan.

But the fourth horse was a sleek liver chestnut—a hand or two smaller than the others, with the swan neck and small, shapely head of an Arabian.

When I was thirteen, this had been my dream horse, like Lula’s Eldorado.

“He’s a beauty,” Olin said, following my gaze. “Name’s—what’s he called, Begay?”

“Nastas.”

“That’s right—Nastas. What’s it mean in Navajo? ‘Leg-Breaker’? Or ‘Never Been Rode’?”

I laughed. “Sure it doesn’t mean ‘Call an Ambulance’?”

“Atta girl,” Olin said. “Actually, it means ‘Curve Like Foxtail Grass,’ for that neck of his. Come on over and I’ll make the introductions.”

Begay had already dismounted and was leading Nastas to the gate where I stood. The horse seemed much bigger up close. His ears swiveled at the sound of my voice.

“Good boy,” I murmured nervously, running my hand down the firm muscles of his neck. Olin handed me a carrot, and I held it to the horse’s muzzle until he snorted and grabbed it in his teeth. All the while, Begay was settling a blanket on the horse’s back, then a saddle. He cinched it snug.

“His mouth is soft, so easy on the bit,” Begay said as he worked. “Ask him—don’t tell him. He knows.”

“Okay, boy,” I murmured. “I’ll go easy on you if you go easy on me.”

“All set?” Olin asked, gripping the bridle. “Don’t worry—he likes you.”

“Yeah?” I said shakily. “Let’s see him show it.”

I stepped to the side and slid my left foot into the stirrup, grabbed a handful of mane and pulled myself into the saddle. While Begay adjusted the stirrups, I ran through those old riding lessons in my head—back straight, toes up, heels down.

“Take the reins in your left hand—this is Western style, not English,” Olin said. “Grip ’em in front of you. Not too tight. That’s right.”

Begay led the horse forward at a slow walk. We moved halfway around the corral like that, till he let go and moved to the side. Then it was just me and the horse making a circuit all by ourselves.

“How’s it feel?” Olin called out.

I smiled. “Like riding a bicycle. A really big bicycle.”

“Doin’ good,” Olin said. “Ready for the lesson?”

“I thought this was it,” I said.

He and Begay laughed.

“Aw, now, you can do better’n this,” said Olin.

Begay approached again. He patted the horse’s neck and said something in a language I couldn’t understand. Then he looked up at me.

“Listen to Olin,” he said. “You can do better.”

He stood back to give the horse a light slap across the flank, and Nastas set off at a hard trot that jarred every bone in my body. In desperation I tried to post, which I knew wasn’t Western, either. Olin called out for me to sit and relax. Find the rhythm.

Instead, I pulled on the reins to make it stop before I could fall off. Nastas shook his head, his mane flying. He was disappointed; he wanted to run. I had a feeling this wouldn’t end well.

“Whoa, boy.” Olin was grabbing the bridle again as Nastas ground to a halt. “You’re fightin’ ’im, Joanna.”

“I wouldn’t fight anything that outweighed me this much. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.”