RANGE Magazine-Summer 2013-Horses We've Loved
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SU13 4.16.q_RANGE template.q 4/16/13 2:34 PM Page 12 Horses We’ve Loved The good ones are truly partners. Words by John L. Moore. Painting by David Graham. hen the dust begins settling we $70 for him, gave him to me, and I named bred stallion. Shiloh arrived sorrel with a flax- remember the horses. We recall him Gusto. en mane and tail and one white spot over his W the mounts, good and bad, the Gusto was everything Ribbon Tail wasn’t. left ribs. He grew to just under 15 hands with days spent horseback, the scenes viewed As a two-year-old he took to the saddle easi- a solid frame, good muscle, and explosive through cow-ponies’ ears, and the friends ly, reined naturally, and galloped smoother power. A visiting East Coast horsewoman and who rode beside us. When the dust begins than sunlight washing across glass. His eyes television producer rode him once and settling we appraise our future by expected were big, soft, and deep, but at their depths announced, “This is a warhorse.” days horseback, and as friends pass we say at burned enough fire to smoke through long And he was. Even into his 20s there was funerals, “At least he was horseback up to the days. He stood 14.3 with a long hip, balanced not a short-course prairie race he didn’t end.” We only really mourn those who neck, and trim head. His one fault was a know he could win and, just for fun, I let him haven’t this eulogy. round back with not enough wither, but this do it on occasion. We retired him at 24 and When my father, Johnny Moore, died at paled against his athleticism and savvy. He the last photograph of him at work shows he 69, his family and friends said it. “He was was a natural cow horse. My father and and Debra dropping a string of yearlings off horseback up to the end.” uncles, astride their hardheaded range hors- a gumbo divide. My partner Lynne Taylor passed at 71. es, knew to ease aside when Gusto and I For the next two years I forced Shiloh He spent the day before his death working entered a herd to cut dries. It wasn’t me they into nanny service. Two years ago he babysat horseback. Horseback up to the end. respected, that’s for sure. It was the splash a stud colt through a tough winter in rough My friend Denny Looman died at 69, paint and what he would do for me. country because I couldn’t get to them. He leaving the track where he’d just galloped his When adventure took me on the road, came out thin that spring but showed no racehorses. into marriage and military service, my kid dimness of fire. Last summer he ran with a They passed too young, but they were sister started Gusto on barrels. And she won. Three Bars mare from Texas and her King- horseback up to the end. And at the end, is It made him too hot—always looking for the bred filly. A week before my 60th birthday I there any stronger symbol of the West than crowd, the noise, the nudge to explode into a spilled them some cake, got distracted, stood the riderless horse at a funeral? And yet, this cloverleaf—but when I returned to ranching in the wrong place, placed my hand on the is seldom the deceased’s favorite mount— with my city-raised wife, Debra, it was Gusto wrong spot and got soundly kicked in my though it could have been. Definitely, it was who trained her. right knee. It was my fault. Not his. He his last, and being his last, counted among We put him down at 24, his knees and thought it was the filly chewing on his tail. his favorites. hips arthritic, his status with the cavvy hav- My result: broken tibia, displaced and What great trust we place in the animal ing caved to the bottom. He’s buried on a sprained knee, burst bursa, and torn menis- that packs us as we age. With what affection cedar-topped hill. cus tendon. we hold them in our hearts. The next great one was Shogun, a Rapid Two months later when I could hobble Yet, this love story begins much sooner Bar-bred stallion I bought and cut. Thinking around with some certainty, it came time to with the first horse of our youth. Not the first he had 30 rides on him I took him straight to put him down. There was no revenge in this. two or three we’re placed on, but the first that cattle. A dark bay standing 15.1, his eye was Winter was coming. His knees and hips were is ours to break. Mine was a nightmare. A lit- even softer than Gusto’s and his legs longer. arthritic. Dignity was leaving him. We dug a tle blue roan called Ribbon Tail, the ill-begot- The wife loved him and he loved her, but it grave between the corrals and the creek so ten product of a poorly planned pairing of a was our children, Jess and Andrea, who bene- deep I led him into it. He’s buried there but Shetland mare and a leopard Appaloosa stal- fited from his care. Personality bubbled from sometimes I think I hear his heart beating lion. Ribbon Tail had wood for brains but Shogun like an artesian spring. There wasn’t a through the earth. iron for will. He was mean, barn sour, and gate he couldn’t open and his nickers and How well I will always remember the cat- immune to pain. And when I was 10 he was neighs had a resonance that suggested he’d tle we roped, the miles we jogged, the times mine to break. He almost broke me. Finally, teach us to speak horse if we’d only listen. we walked to the tack room at dark, both of after two years of torment, my bantam-sized We put him down at 25, his knees and us tired, neither of us feeling regret. Some mother pecked my father into submission hips arthritic, his status with the cavvy hav- think a horse is only a tool, some ruin them and Ribbon Tail was sold to pack-string pur- ing caved to the bottom. He’s buried on the as pets, and others imagine them a friend. gatory, wedged into a long line of mules. cedar-topped hill next to Gusto. Years after The good ones are partners. Any love I had for horses could have died his death I learned he’d only been saddled six Now although I am only nearing 61, the with that blue roan but my dad came home times when I bought him. wear and tear and injuries and abuse have from the sales barn one day with a stylish The next and the latest is Shiloh, the result aged me. My knees and hips creak stiffly and misfit—a crop-out sorrel overo yearling of me trying to reproduce Gusto by taking a a freak neck injury has disrupted the wiring that’d gone through the ring loose. Dad paid race-bred quarter horse mare to a Remount- to my hands. At times my fingers are numb. 12 • RANGE MAGAZINE • SUMMER 2013 SU13 4.16.q_RANGE template.q 4/16/13 2:34 PM Page 13 At other times my thumbs and palms spark James’ sketch, an Orren Mixer painting, a But I am not ready for this to end. There with pain. I feel like I am losing place in the photograph by Jay Dusard, William Albert are miles to go, horseback, until I sleep. My cavvy. It hurts to recall being limber, quick, Allard, or Kurt Markus? Can you corral it in heart yearns for one more good horse. One and almost reckless because I detest being the poetry of Laurie Jameson when she to outlive me. One to be saddled, riderless, at awkward, slow, and excessively cautious. But writes: “I do not dream of him or the way he some point, some time, a long ways yet away. like Dad, Lynne, and Denny, I am deter- once held me. I dream of him and his horses— I hope. I mined to stay horseback to the end. Yet, in their names sliding through fingers of con- this I encounter my own selfishness. Is this sciousness like butter-soft reins on a worn-out John L. Moore is a writer and rancher in east- best for me, for my grandchildren? summer day—Peanuts, Diamond, Blackie, ern Montana. The lines by Laurie Jameson are from the poem “His Horses” from “Across But how do you explain the love of hors- Buck, Duchess, Claude, Tequila, Bill, Honda, the High Divide” (Ghost Road Press). They es and the greater love, I think, of being Shavano, Honeybee, Ned...” And I would add are used with permission. horseback? Can you measure it in a Will Gusto, Shogun, Shiloh... SUMMER 2013 • RANGE MAGAZINE • 13.