Smokey stood 15½ hands, but the gelding’s wide back looked as high as barn rafters to the eleven-year-old in cowboy boots. A resounding nose-snort startled the child, and he perceived the warning to mean, “Son, you’re about to bite off way more than you can chew.”

With a single kick of one shod hoof, the half-Morgan, half-Quarter horse could crush the boy’s skull. With a sudden swing of his rump he could pin the boy against the split-rail fence. The child took a deep breath and warily flopped the pungent, sweat-stained blanket onto the horse’s back. He stood on tiptoe to adjust the Indian blanket just behind the horse’s withers, as he had been taught. Today, he might graduate behind the barn, absent family spectators or tutors. He owned the day; it was his to succeed or fail.

A Shetland pony grazed in the pasture a few yards away, unaware of the shift that was taking place in her life, and the life of her owner. The dapple-gray pony had been a fast friend to the gangly boy; but their alliance had been on borrowed time. His rides had become top heavy, and leggy. He pushed the limit of his small black saddle - and his first pony.

The gelding lurched at the sudden sound of stirrups scraping the dirt, and indignantly sidled against the fence, away from the lad, who advanced gamely, straining under the weight of a heavy, roping saddle. The youth dropped the saddle to the ground, surveyed the mountain of horseflesh, and summoned his courage.

“Whoa, Smoke. Whoa Smoke.”

The boy hitched the right stirrup over the saddle horn, and with all his strength hoisted the saddle upward, in the direction of Smokey’s broad back. The saddle smacked the gelding’s left rack of ribs, and he flinched and backed away, leaving leather and tenderfoot struggling in a heap.

The child regrouped, heart pounding in his ears, and found a metal feed bucket to use as a launching pad. He patted the thick neck of the great horse, speaking softly, while he caught his breath.

“Almost,” he whispered to the black, as if the horse was rooting for him, “Easy, easy.” This time the horse braced for the slap of leather, and only flinched when the boy thumped the saddle higher upon his ribs. The youngster heaved the saddle up, up, up until is
settled into its place. Smokey grunted as the heavy stirrup dislodged from the horn, and dropped with a thud against his right side; then, recovering his dignity, the horse planted his hooves and puffed out his belly. He waited for the girth strap to be cinched tight, eager to put this greenhorn to the test.

The boy lifted a black and silver bridle. Smokey inclined his powerful head downward, and opened his mouth for the curb bit. A chill of triumph coursed through the youth as he buckled the neck strap. He led Smokey into the 20-acre pasture.

Smokey stood bunched, noisily fidgeting with his tongue on a roller in his curb bit. The child easily hoisted his foot into the stirrup - the length was set for his long-legged father - and as he clumsily straddled the ample seat, he lit the charge beneath him. Smokey exploded into a sudden, sideways run, nearly leaving the boy in midair. The ten-year-old veteran had unseated more than a few riders with this move, and he took pleasure in the attempt.

Gathering the reins, the boy gripped with his knees and hooked his thighs behind the cantle so hard he thought his legs would go numb. Smokey ran in a straight line now, and a thrill took the boy. He gently reined in the horse, and reached a hand to touch his smooth, roached neck, communicating respect for the steed’s power – but also dominance tempered by humility. Smokey bowed his neck, and trotted comfortably, like an old amigo.