El Lazo - The Clint Ryan Series by L. J. Martin

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  “Take the loop and lazo that grulla.” Ramón motioned to the band of horses in the far corner of the corral.

  “Grulla?” Clint did not understand the word.

  “The light dun-colored stallion,” the vaquero explained.

  Clint took the leather reata from the corral post, shook out a loop, and moved across the corral. A line was already second nature to him. Still, on the first toss he missed. Patiently, he retrieved the loop, separated the stallion from the others, and this time deftly dropped the loop over the horse’s head. The stallion placidly followed him across the corral.

  “Put these on.” Ramón handed him a pair of spurs with rowels at least three inches across. Clint strapped them over his worn, salt-stained boots.

  “Now the bridle,” Ramón motioned to the Spanish bit that lay across the saddle he had had Clint carry from the barn.

  Clint picked it up, made sure the chin strap was unfastened, and reached up to slip it over the horse’s ears with one hand, inserting the bit with the other. The animal flipped his head and pulled back. Clint had to drop the bit and take up the slack in the reata to control him.

  “He is a Spanish horse, Anglo,” Ramón said patiently. “A fine Andalusian stallion. He understands the se ensilla, como en Castilla. The reins over his neck first. He senses the control, with the reins in place.”

  This time, Clint draped the reins over the horse’s neck as Ramón suggested, and the horse stood quietly and took the bit.

  “Bueno, Anglo. Now for the saddle.”

  Clint thoroughly brushed the horse’s back, then carefully fitted a hair-filled jerga saddle blanket. Only then did he pick up the high-cantled Spanish saddle and swing it into place, making sure it was well up against the big stallion’s withers. Reaching under the animal he retrieved the woven horsehair cinch, then ran the latigo two loops through the cinch ring and jerked the latigo up tightly.

  He turned and looked expectantly at Ramón.

  “Are you prepared to mount Anglo?”

  Without answering, Clint put a foot into the tapadero and found the round wooden stirrup.

  “No, no, no,” Ramón chastised. “You have forgotten the paso de la muerte, the step of death,”

  “What the hell is that?” Clint removed his foot.

  “How do you know the horse’s flesh is not crimped or pinched by the cinch, the latigo, or the saddle? Mount a stallion pinched by the latigo, and he will promptly show his displeasure—and rightfully so.” Ramón took the reins and led the horse in a tight circle to the left, then to the right.

  “Now,” he said, returning the reins to Clint, “if you are fortunate, he is ready.”

  “The paso de la muerte?” Clint repeated, and smiled.

  “Sí, Anglo, it is your death we are attempting to prevent, not the stallion’s. Mount.”

  Clint swung easily into the saddle.

  “We train our young horses with a bosal, without a bit.”

  “A ‘bosal’?”

  “A nosepiece. When the reins of the jacima, of winch the bosal is a part, are pulled, the nosepiece tightens gently across the nostrils, cutting off the stallion’s wind. Soon he learns not to pull against the rein. Only after he is broken do we allow the iron in his mouth. The bit you are using now is a barroyecca. It will tear that animal’s tongue from his head if you are careless—or cruel. So treat him with respect, and with a rein as tender as if it were in the mouth of your beloved. I promise such respect will he repaid.”

  Even though Clint looked rather comical in ragged duck pants and striped shirt, Ramón watched with approval. “You sit the saddle well, Anglo. And you seem comfortable with the reata. If we are fortunate, and you are not thrown on your cabeza, this may only take a few years.” Ramon did not smile, but his eyes glinted with humor.

  “Then we best get with it,” Clint’s smile was faint, but he sensed Ramón’s pleasure as the man turned and headed for the barn and his own saddle. “Perhaps I did pick the right man,” Clint thought, “Perhaps exactly the right man.”

  As Ramón walked away, another man leaned on the top rail of the corral, his shoulders ax-handle wide and his belly wider—and all supported by thighs the size of oak trunks, His features were broad and full, his ample head of hair black as coal, and his skin bean-brown, but he was not a Mexican.

  Clint figured that this huge man must be the Kanaka who had helped him, the man he had seen when he first entered the pueblo. Reining his horse over, he extended his hand to the smiling man. Though Clint’s hand was not small, it was lost in the ham-size hand of the Kanaka.

  “I’m Clint Ryan, and you must be the man who brought me to the mission.”

  The big man smiled like a delighted child. “You were not so heavy.”

  “I owe you more than thanks. You saved my life”

  “Then I am glad you were not so heavy.”

  “Somehow I don’t think many men would be too heavy for you to tote. You’re a Kanaka?”

  “Yes, and a sailorman, like you.”

  “And what is your name?”

  “I am Matthew Mataca Konokapali. A name as big as me,” he said, spreading his massive arms wide and laughing at his own joke.

  “Matthew Mataca Konokapali, nice to meet you. You don’t mind if I call you Matt?”

  “It is my missionary given name. You said my Sandwich Island name well, for a Bostoner. It is good to meet you, Mr. Clint Ryan.”

  “If I call you Matt, it would please me if you called me Clint.”

  “Clint it is.”

  Clint was marveling at the size of the man when Ramón rode out of the barn and called to him.

  “It is time, Anglo, to see if you can use that ‘line,’ as you call it.”

  Clint said to the big Kanaka “I’ve a few reales from working at the mission for Don Nicholas Den. If you’re here when we return, I’ll stand you to a mug. It’s the least I can do, friend.”

  “I will wait.” The big man lumbered into the shade of the barn.