“She has ideas of her own, sir,” he said, as I mounted. “A light hand and firm is what she needs. Good luck, sir.”
Gently he let go of her head and stepped back. The mare quivered and bounded forward, tugging at the snaffle. She swept out of the yard and struck into a singlefoot—a gait natural to her, as natural as the high carriage of her head and tail. We swung into the bridle trail leading up the valley toward the hills.
The trail was arched by wide-spreading branches of oaks and silver-mottled sycamores, and dappled with sunlight and shade. A gray squirrel scampered along a limb and leaped to a slender branch that bent and swayed above us. Yet the mare did not flinch, but swept on, her hoofs sounding a muffled rhythm on the soft earth. I marked squirrels off the tentative list of unpleasant possibilities. Round a wide bend in the trail the mare stepped on a slender, fallen branch. It snapped, and a piece of it flicked up and struck her, yet she did not flinch or play up. A vagrant wind, drifting along the afternoon hillside, scattered a heap of dead leaves piled beside the trail. The mare hesitated the least bit, then shook her head and went on. Fallen branches and dead leaves were scratched from the list. Farther along, a Mexican, clearing out brush, rose suddenly and stared at us. The mare stopped and snorted, not because she was actually frightened, but rather because she was indignant at being startled.
I scratched sudden Mexicans off the list. A horse would hardly be worth riding that would not be startled by such an apparition. A straight stretch offered, and I put the mare into a canter. She went collectedly, smoothly, and with fine restraint. My suspicions were rocked to sleep. I had begun to get the pace of the mare, to get in tune with her mood and manner of going. When such harmony is attained, riding becomes a superlative delight. But delights are ephemeral.
At the head of the valley are the gravel pits. And up toward the head of the valley a road crosses the bridle trail diagonally, a modern road, hard-surfaced and commercial. It is a highway for mammoth steel gravel trucks that, empty and loaded, go and come day and night. Their right of way is never disputed or ignored. What do they care about mere automobiles or even more insignificant horses and riders? These trucks are the clamoring juggernauts of civilization.
Shortly before we came within sight of this hazardous crossing, both the mare and I were aware of the heavy boom and roar of a motor. The mare stopped abruptly. I urged her on. She responded, going at a walk, but daintily, as though afraid of treacherous ground. I felt her grow tense. I surmised that she intended to whirl and run. The sound of the motor grew louder. I tried to take the mare on, that she might at least see what caused the noise, but she refused. Then, with the rattle and clash and clang of a drayload of iron pipe over cobbles, an empty gravel truck thundered past. The mare laid back her ears, whirled, and bolted.
It happened that I was fortunate enough to accompany her, but in a more or less impromptu manner. I had been told, often enough, that there are certain rules to observe in such cases: Use your legs; take a firm hold of the snaffle; don’t take hold too hard; give your horse his head; sit down and ride; let him see that you are not afraid of that which frightened him; speak to him quietly; keep him going on. These rules are all very well, but the difficulty seems to be that there are no two cases exactly alike. About all there was left to do was to sit down and try to ride. Also, there were branches and tree trunks to dodge. The mare was cutting turns, with a wild disregard of obstacles. She did not seem especially interested in taking me past them if she cleared them herself.
I had a vision of foliage whisking past, of a winding trail that swept dizzily underneath, and of a sharp pair of upstanding ears, ever pointed toward the south and the stables. By great good fortune, I managed to get the mare down to a reasonable gallop before we made the turn into the stable yard. We made it together, but I came along merely as a passenger, not a rider. She stopped at the entrance to the stable, drew a deep breath, and stood quietly, with ears pointed sharply to the front.
Maurice came up, a quizzical smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He stroked the mare’s neck.
“You’ll be taking her out again?” he asked.