Half broke horses: a true-life novel by Jeannette Walls Read Free Book Online Page B

they’d been found shot to death in the pecan grove near the fence line we shared with the Puckets.
    “I’d like to call my first witness,” I said, but the judge cut me off again.
    “Did you shoot those dogs?” he asked Old Man Pucket.
    “Sure did.”
    “Why?”
    “They was on my property chasing my cattle, and from a distance I thought they was big ol’ wolves.”
    Dad started arguing, but the judge shushed him.
    “Sir, I can’t make out what you’re saying, and it don’t matter any-how ,” the judge said. “You got no business keeping dogs bigger than wolves in cattle country.”
    Turning to Old Man Pucket, he said, “But those were valuable animals, and he deserves some compensation for their loss. If you’re shy of cash, some livestock—horses or cattle—would do it”
    And that was that.
    A FEW DAYS AFTER the trial, Old Man Pucket showed up at the ranch with a string of horses. Dad, still harboring a grudge, refused to leave the house, so I went out to meet Old Man Pucket, who was turning the horses into the corral.
    “Just like the judge ordered, miss,” he said.
    Even before Old Man Pucket had shot the dogs, we’d had our differences. Like most folks on the Rio Hondo, he did what he could to get by, and if that meant encroaching on someone else’s land or diverting a creek onto his property, he was prepared to do it. Dad called him a dirt farmer, but I thought of him as a scrapper who understood that sometimes, instead of asking another person’s permission, you were best off doing what needed to be done, defending it with bluster, and then apologizing later—if and when it came to that.
    “Payment acknowledged,” I said, and shook his hand. Unlike Dad, I saw no point in carrying a grudge with a neighbor. You never knew when you might need someone’s help.
    Old Man Pucket handed me a bill listing what he claimed was the value of each horse, then tipped his hat. “You’d make a mighty fine lawyer,” he said.
    After Old Man Pucket left, Dad came out and looked at the horses. When I handed him the bill, he snorted in disgust. “None of those nags is worth twenty dollars,” he said.
    It was true. Old Man Pucket’s valuations were wildly inflated. There were eight horses in all, stumpy, tough little mustangs, the kind that cowboys rounded up out in the wild and sat on for a day or two so they’d just barely accept a saddle. I figured that was what Old Man Pucket’s sons had done with these critters. None of the males was gelded. They were unshod, with chipped-up hooves in terrible need of trimming, and their manes and tails were matted with burrs. They were also scared, watching us nervously and clearly wondering what sort of dreadful end these humans had in store for them.
    The problem with half-broke horses like these was that no one took the time to train them. Cowboys who could ride anything caught them and ran them on fear, spurring and quirting them too hard, taking pride in staying on no matter how desperately they bucked and fishtailed. Not properly broken, they were always scared and hated humans. A lot of times the cowboys released them once the roundup was over, but by then they’d lost some of the instincts that kept them alive out in the desert. They were, however, intelligent and had pluck, and if you broke them right, they made good horses.
    One in particular caught my eye, a mare. I always liked mares. They weren’t as crazy as stallions but had more fire than your typical gelding. This one was a pinto, no bigger or smaller than the others, but she seemed less scared and was watching me intently, as if trying to figure me out. I cut her out from the herd, lassoed her, and then slowly walked up to her, following Dad’s rule around strange horses to keep your eyes on the ground so they won’t think you’re a predator.
    She stood still, and when I reached her, again moving slowly, I raised my hand to the side of her head and scratched behind one ear. Then I brought my