Wynne's War by Aaron Gwyn Page B

didn’t lick its lips at all. He glanced over and saw Wheels coming from the stable with the Kimblewick in hand. It was a kind of curb bit, though most didn’t consider it a curb, or not a traditional curb. If you had a slotted Kimble, you could apply leverage to the horse’s mouth, get him to pay attention. That all depended on whether or not you could get it into the horse’s mouth. Even then, it would only help when the horse was saddled and the rider was seated upon it.
    Wheels walked around and handed him the bit, and Russell sat holding it by the D-rings and working the joint. He’d have to attach it to the reins and the halter, remove the halter already on the stallion, work the new halter over the horse’s head, and get him to accept the Kimble. It wouldn’t keep him from biting, and it certainly wouldn’t keep him from kicking. He imagined the horse on it back legs, reared to full height, hoofs pawing the air. He pushed that image away.
    By early evening, he’d managed to get the old halter off, the new halter on, the Kimblewick in place. They’d saddled the stallion, and it stood now on the far side of the corral, head down, left ear twitching. The muscles along the horse’s shoulder would flex and release, flex and release. Russell walked to the edge of the corral and leaned his flag stick against the panel, paying out the long line as he went, never taking his eyes from the horse. Wheels watched him as he approached the stallion and brushed a hand under the horse’s chin, down his throat, stepping to the horse’s left side, rubbing the horse’s neck, telling him it was okay. The horse didn’t look okay. He looked like something about to explode. Russell didn’t seem to notice. He stood there talking to the stallion. Then he placed his left boot in the stirrup, grabbed the horn in his left hand, the cantle in his right, and lifted himself alongside the stallion, leaning slightly over him, standing in the stirrup one-footed. The horse began instantly to sidle and then to turn, Russell still talking calmly.
    Wheels watched. Horse and man looked to be involved in an intricate dance—Russell perched along the animal’s left side, clucking softly with his tongue, the stallion tossing its head and turning, tossing its head and turning, rotating in wider and wider circles, dust rising from its hooves in the late-evening light. Then, just as quickly as the horse had started moving, it stopped. Stopped and stood motionless, the dust passing eastward through the corral, fleeing the sunset in a red drift of smoke. Russell waited several moments for the animal to settle. The air had a sharp edge to it. A bird called. He nodded several times, threw his right leg over, found the stirrup on that side, and lowered himself into the saddle. He leaned forward and took up the reins and then reached down to pat the horse’s neck.
    â€œGood boy,” he said.
    He’d just gotten out the words when the stallion bucked. It came without warning, front and rear legs coming suddenly together, and then the rear legs shooting out behind, kicking, turning somehow, Russell trying to lean forward and straighten himself along the horse’s neck, lower his center of gravity, the stallion spinning faster, resembling for the briefest of moments a figure skater, corkscrewing, man and horse beginning to blur. And then winding out of this eddy, slowing, the two of them separate again, distinct, Russell still astride the animal, teeth clenched, reining the stallion and pulling him to the left, the horse taking wider steps now, head down, the soldiers along the rail watching as men will watch a fight—wide-eyed, astonished—something of reverence in the air, a ritual activated in the blood, and all the while Russell looking as if he was about to be thrown and yet directing the stallion’s movements with a squeeze of the thighs, a tug of the reins.
    When he