I’m pleased to hear it. Of course your preference is for one that’ll bow up like a bandsaw and run head first into the barn wall.
John Grady smiled. Horse of my dreams, he said. It aint exactly like that.
How is it then?
I dont know. I think it’s just somethin you like. Or dont like. You can add up all of a horse’s good points on a sheet of paper and it still wont tell you whether you’ll like the horse or not.
What about if you add up all his bad ones?
I dont know. I’d say you’d probably done made up your mind at that point.
You think there’s horses so spoiled you cant do nothin with em?
Yes I do. But probably not as many as you might think.
Maybe not. You think a horse can understand what a man says?
You mean like the words?
I dont know. Like can he understand what he says.
John Grady looked out the window. Water was beaded on the glass. Two bats were hunting in the barnlight. No, he said. I think he can understand what you mean.
He watched the bats. He looked at Oren.
I guess my feelin about a horse is that he mostly worries about what he dont know. He likes to be able to see you. Barring that, he likes to be able to hear you. Maybe he thinks that if you’re talkin you wont be doin somethin else he dont know about.
You think horses think?
Sure. Dont you?
Yes I do. Some people claim they dont.
Well. Some people could be wrong.
You think you can tell what a horse is thinkin?
I think I can tell what he’s fixin to do.
Generally.
John Grady smiled. Yeah, he said. Generally.
Mac always claimed a horse knows the difference between right and wrong.
Mac’s right.
Oren smoked. Well, he said. That’s always been a bit much for me to swallow.
I think if they didnt you couldnt even train one.
You dont think it’s just gettin em to do what you want?
I think you can train a rooster to do what you want. But you wont have him. There’s a way to train a horse where when you get done you’ve got the horse. On his own ground. A good horse will figure things out on his own. You can see what’s in his heart. He wont do one thing while you’re watchin him and another when you aint. He’s all of a piece. When you’ve got a horse to that place you cant hardly get him to do somethin he knows is wrong. He’ll fight you over it. And if you mistreat him it just about kills him. A good horse has justice in his heart. I’ve seen it.
You got a lot higher opinion of horses than I got, Oren said.
I really dont have all that much in the way of opinions where horses are concerned. When I was a kid I thought I knew all there was to know about a horse. Where horses are concerned I’ve just got dumber and dumber.
Oren smiled.
If a man really understood horses, John Grady said. If a man really understood horses he could just about train one by lookin at it. There wouldnt be nothin to it. My way is a long way from workin one over with a tracechain. But it’s a long way from what’s possible too.
He stretched his legs out. He crossed the sprained foot over his boot.
You’re right about one thing, he said. They’re mostly ruint before they ever bring em out here. They’re ruined at the first saddle. Before that, even. The best horses are the ones been around kids. Or maybe even just a wild horse in off the range that’s never even seen a man. He’s got nothin to unlearn.
You might have a hard time gettin anyone to agree with you on that last one.
I know it.
You ever break a wild horse?
Yeah. You hardly ever train one though.
Why not?
People dont want em trained. They just want em broke. You got to train the owner.
Oren leaned and stubbed out his cigarette. I hear you, he said.
John Grady sat studying the smoke rising into the lampshade over the table. That probably aint true what I said about the one that aint never seen a man. They need to see people. They need to just see em around. Maybe what they need is to just think people are trees until the trainer comes along.
IT WAS STILL LIGHT OUT, a gray light with the rain falling in the streets again and the vendors huddled in the doorways looking out at the rain without expression. He stomped the water from his boots and entered and crossed to the bar and took off his hat and laid it on the barstool. There were no other customers. Two whores lounging on a sofa watched him without much interest. The barman poured his whiskey.
He described the girl to the barman but the barman only shrugged and shook his head.
Eres muy joven.
He shrugged again. He wiped the bar and leaned back and took a cigarette from his shirtpocket and lit it. John Grady motioned for another whiskey and doled his coins onto the counter. He took his hat and his glass over to the sofa and queried the whores but they only tugged at his clothing and asked him to buy them a drink. He looked into their faces. Who they might be behind the caked sizing and the rouge, the black greasepaint lining their dark indian eyes. They seemed alien and sad. Like madwomen dressed for an outing. He looked at the neon deer hanging on the wall behind them and the garish tapestries of plush, of foil and braid. He could hear the rain on the roof to the rear and the steady small drip of water falling from the ceiling into puddles in the bloodred carpeting. He drained his whiskey and set the glass on the low table and put on his hat. He nodded to them and touched the brim of his hat to go.