“Sure, we can hang back and you can instruct me in the fine points of horsemanship.”
An Indian groom brought the horses out of the stable. They were much sturdier animals than the ones Sandy had rented at any riding academy—more like cowboy ponies. They wore Western saddles, too.
“They’re all mares,” Thorsen explained. “Not too high-spirited and very manageable. Good mounts for tracking.”
Jerry’s eyes were round as he and his horse confronted each other. “This is the closest I’ve ever been to one,” he confided to Sandy. “I never realized they were so big.”
“You won’t have any trouble,” Sandy assured him. “She’s a gentle girl.” He stroked the smooth flanks and the muscles rippled beneath the glossy black coat. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”
Jerry mounted without difficulty and settled himself comfortably in the big saddle with his feet planted in the stirrups. “Nothing to it,” he said.
Sandy grinned. “Nothing to a jet plane either, while it’s sitting in the hangar. Here.” He handed Jerry’s rifle up to him.
“What do I do with it?” Jerry demanded.
Sandy indicated a large leather sheath that was fastened to the right side of the saddle. “Stick it in the saddle boot.”
They rode out single file, with Thorsen’s horse breaking trail through knee-deep snow across a broad meadow behind the ranch house. A long split-rail fence ran along the back of the property. Thorsen pointed out a break in the fence, where the heavy logs lay scattered around like jackstraws and a six-inch post was snapped off at the base.