‘I can see that,’ said Elbert.
A curious look came into Bart’s eyes—a trace of deep rest. ‘You see, a horse knows when a man’s afraid. He smells fear, or feels it. He gets afraid, too, or confused—loses what little head he’s got. He begins to look out through a sheet of blood, if you drive him deeper into fear. If pushed far, he goes crazy, and that’s what they call a bad horse. Sometimes they are ten times as strong as a horse in his right senses—just like a man-maniac—’
Elbert had so much to say it was hard to keep still.
‘You see, I wanted that old gray so badly for my own,’ Bart went on. ‘They told me how bad he was, but I couldn’t believe it. He let me get up to him—let me climb on his back. But when I got him back to Bismo, everybody remembered him bein’ an outlaw. Dad tried breakin’ him again—and they took him back to the Cup Q.’
Bart chuckled. One would think he had been telling some amusing boyhood experience. His voice was easy, almost careless—Bob Leadley all over again—not a sign for the listener that a deep misery of life was being discussed. Suddenly Elbert realized that it was not only with horses, but with men like Bob Leadley and his son—one had to trust his feelings, or else miss a lot. And with women—
‘But your father knew better afterward,’ Elbert finally said.
‘How’s that?’
‘He knew you had something on the rat-tail, he didn’t have—’
‘How’s that?’
‘He told me. Everybody in Bismo kept warning him that the gray would kill you. He got afraid for you, but he knew better afterward. Your father came to understand what you meant about not wanting a ‘broke’ horse. He told me he thought about that one thing for years. It was from him and some things from Mort Cotton—that I got any idea about handling Mamie—’ Deep relief, Elbert knew as he halted a moment, the same that he had known that night, as they rode away from el cuartel in Arecibo. He was making it all clear at last. He got a queer feeling, as if Bob Leadley were resting easier, too.