Wynne's War by Aaron Gwyn

again. When he was finished he asked Wheels to bring him the saddle.
    One of the Green Berets turned to another and said, “He’s doing that to introduce it to the horse.”
    â€œNo shit,” the other man said.
    Wheels grabbed the saddle by the horn and cantle, climbed the corral once more, and handed the saddle across to Russell. The blanket rested now over the filly’s back, and Russell stepped beside his horse, swung the saddle up, and planted it atop the blanket. The horse just stood. Russell had half expected her not to accept the saddle, or not to accept it the first time, but the filly didn’t seem troubled by the weight, maybe thirty-five, forty pounds. He let the cinch just hang for several minutes, unbuckled. He spoke to the filly and petted her down, left side and right, and when he was done, he stepped over and reached under the horse, took up the cinch, and ran it through the buckle. Then he stood back and eyed the horse.
    â€œYou doing okay?” he asked her.
    The filly stood. Her right ear swatted once, twice. She gave her tail a brief swish.
    â€œIf you’re going to do something crazy,” said Russell, “I’d as soon you did it now.”
    But the horse didn’t do anything, and after standing another minute, Russell bent down, tightened the cinch, waited for the horse to exhale, and then he buckled the cinch and stood.
    â€œWhat now?” he heard one of the Green Berets ask.
    Russell turned and stared at the row of men standing along the corral with boots propped against the bottom rung. It was turning into some kind of impromptu clinic, but Russell couldn’t worry about any of that. He’d learned a long time ago not to try to impress people, particularly where horses were concerned. It was enough to worry about impressing the horse. Or impressing your intentions on the horse. That you wouldn’t mistreat them. That’d you’d be firm and fair. Training aside, you were dealing with half-ton animals, and they were going to be who they were going to be. Russell gripped the saddle horn with one hand, put his left boot in the stirrup, lifted himself alongside the filly, and let her feel his weight. He reached down with his right hand and petted her neck.
    â€œWhat do you think?” he asked her. “You feel like going around a few times?”
    The horse was steady beneath him. Her ears relaxed and her tail hung straight down. He leaned across her back, straightening his body and backing his left boot partially out of the stirrup in case he’d need to slide off. He waited several moments and then he swung his right leg over, found the far-side stirrup, and lowered himself into the saddle. The filly pawed the dirt and gave a slight shake of her head. Then she settled again. Russell took up the reins, squeezed his thighs, and put the horse forward a few steps. Then a few more. He reached a hand down and petted her neck.
    â€œThat feeling all right to you?” he asked her.
    The horse snorted a jet of vapor into the cool mountain air. Russell chucked her up to a slow walk, and they went round the corral, Russell talking the entire time, stopping the horse, starting her, turning to retrace her path. In five minutes he had her trotting, and in five more he’d pushed her up to a canter, circled twice, and then dropped back to a trot, bouncing with the two-beat gait. Wheels watched him give the slightest tug on the reins, the slightest pressure with his boots. He seemed to will her every movement. He seemed to control her with his thighs. He sat perfectly straight, with his eyes forward and his chin up, moving the filly so her hooves printed half-moons in the corral’s soft dirt. Then he began to slow the horse. He slowed her and walked her to the center of the pen, turned her twice, three times, and then brought her to a halt. The men on either side of Wheels grinned, and one of them chuckled and shook his head.
    Wheels leaned