Horse Stories/Mort/Chapter 3

Three Things

My horse wouldn't stop. Ever. We jigged sideways from the second I crawled up, his head tossing, his tail wringing, until I would give up and let him go. Then we flew.
I could steer him, but there was no slowing him down. He would whiplash his head like a coyote in a trap,and growl low in his chest at the least pull on his reins.
My father had taken pity on me, and borrowed a saddle. It was a huge, heavy 1890's beast, with a deep seat and a cantle high enough to whack me in the small of my back when Mort bolted into the blue. I was embarrassed by it's old, out of date look, and comforted by the deep security of a saddle made to really ride in.
I felt the same way about my horse. He was the most beautiful horse in the world. We ran across the fields, and through the trees like Flicka, or Fury. Mort was everything I ever hoped for in a horse and more. I felt wild and free riding him, I was happy. The three things I had been chasing my entire life. The three things I am still always on the hunt for.
Until I tried to stop him. We stopped when Mort felt like it. My best friend Karen's house, the boarding stable in the park, the arena where we held our club's gymkhanas, and back at our barn, that was about it.
I would take off from my barn on an early Saturday morning, riding the 7 miles to drill team practice. By the time we crested the hill at the big arena Mort would be leaping and straining against the pull of my hands on that brutal chain mechanical hackamore. We would blast past the girls in the drill team, their horses standing quietly, companionably, in a well behaved group, waiting to start practice.
I would set my feet in my giant stirrups, yank desperately at one rein, and slowly start to turn him as we disappeared down the trail. Finally, after lining him out, we would charge past again. Usually on the third or fourth pass, he would stop.
I was horrified. And angry.
The girls in the drill team never said much, they would sneak secret looks to each other, at my foaming, bloody chinned horse, my ancient saddle.
I would glare at them, wild eyed, manure stained from cleaning my stall before I came, my crazy hair blowing around my head. I hated their clean clothes, their horse trailers, their well behaved horses. I hated their silent opinion of my horse.
I was the only one who knew how sure and strong he flew down the rocky trails of the park. He never missed a step, never stumbled or hesitated. I was the only one who understood how safe I was on his back. I was the only one who knew how he hated the restraint of the reins. He didn't want to be bad. I didn't know how to make him be good.
Their smug smiles stopped me from asking for help.
Our drill team leader, Mark, was an old, world weary cowboy. He was a retired rancher who owned the boarding and rental stables in the park. He bred fine appaloosa horses, and was an important man in our community. He had been there, done that. He had taught me to ride.
He had never said a word about my choice in a horse.
He took me aside for a minute at the end of drill practice.
"Having a little trouble keeping Dunny reined in there."
I stared down at my saddle horn. I wanted to tell him I was doing just fine thanks. Having spent our hour long drill practice controlling Mort by jamming his head into the butt of the horse in front of me made me hold my smart mouth tongue.
"Might want to put a bit in his mouth."
"I can't. He's all scarred."
My secret was out. Mort's tongue had a healed tear that went clear across his tongue. It was deep enough to fit my pinkie finger. He had thin white scars on the corners of his mouth. They ran back almost a half inch on both sides. The inside of his mouth was lumpy with scar tissue.
He had scars on his nose, and poll, and jaw.
My hackamore was continually opening up the damaged tissue on his jaw.
I couldn't stand the thought of being laughed at for buying this damaged mess. I couldn't bear the weight of somebody telling me my horse wasn't repairable.
I dropped my head further between my tight shoulders. I clenched my fists, and got ready to fly away into the park.
"Why don't you come to the stable after supper. We'll see what we can rig up for this boy."
That night I made it back to the stables before dark.
Mark helped me fit Mort with a solid, medium port bit with a roller.
The port gave him tongue relief, the roller gave him a way to vent his anxiety, the solid shanks gave me something to hang on to.
He wrapped a leather chin strap with some electrical tape, to ease his raw jaw, and showed me how to properly fit it.
There was no judgement in his eyes, no lectures, no extra advice.
"Thank you." I managed.
"See you Saturday." He said.
We flew home on our fourth 7 mile trip that day. I still couldn't stop him.
He didn't toss his head. He didn't growl. He came down from his usual dead run to a ground covering lope. The cool evening air blew through my sweat crusted hair. I sat back in my saddle, safe between the high cantle and swells. Something had shifted. We were free. We were not quite as wild. We were happy.
It was a start.