Split Infinity

Tune and Roberta began training the new riders.  Stile returned to his routine duties. But suddenly it was not as interesting, handling the horses afoot. His mind was elsewhere. Tune was the first really attractive girl he had encountered who was smaller than he was. Such a little thing, physical height, but what a subjective difference it could make!

Today he was lunging the horses. Lunging consisted of tying them to a fixed boom on a rotating structure, so they had to stay in an exact course, and making them trot around in a circle. It was excellent exercise, if dull for both man and horse. Some horses were too temperamental for the mechanical lead, so he had to do them by hand. He simply tied a rope to an artificial tree, and stood with his hand on that line while he urged the animal forward.

Stile had a way with horses, despite his size. They tended to respond to him when they would not do a thing for other stable hands. This, unfortunately, meant that he got the most difficult horses to lunge. No horse gave trouble about feeding or going to pasture, but a number could get difficult about the more onerous labors.

The first horse he had to lunge was Spook—the worst of them. Spook was jet black all over, which perhaps accounted for his name. He was also extremely excitable—which was a more likely reason for his name. He could run with the best—the very best—but had to be kept in top condition.

“Come on. Spook,” Stile said gently. “You wouldn’t want to get all weak and flabby, would you? How would you feel if some flatfooted mare beat your time in a race? You know you have to exercise.”

Spook knew no such thing. He aspired to a life career of grazing and stud service; there was little room in his itinerary for exercise. He had quite an arsenal of tricks to stave off the inevitable. When Stile approached, Spook retreated to the farthest comer of his pen, then tried to leap away when cornered. But Stile, alert, cut him off and caught his halter. He had to reach up high to do it, for this horse could look right over Stile’s head without elevating his own head. Spook could have flattened Stile, had he wanted to; but he was not a vicious animal, and perhaps even enjoyed this periodic game.

Spook tried to nip Stile’s hand. “No!” Stile said sharply, making a feint with his free hand as if to slap the errant nose, and the horse desisted. Move and countermove, without actual violence. That was the normal language of horses, who could indulge in quite elaborate series of posturings to make themselves accurately understood.

They took a few steps along the path, then Spook balked, planting all four feet in the ground like small tree trunks. He was of course far too heavy for even a large man to budge by simple force. But Stile slapped him lightly on the flank with the free end of the lead-line, startling him into motion. One thing about being spooky: it was hard to stand firm.

Spook moved over, trying to shove Stile off the path and into a building, but Stile shoved the horse’s head back, bracing against it. Control the head, control the body; he had learned that principle in martial art, winning matches by hold-downs though his opponents might outweigh him considerably—because their greater mass became useless against his strategy. Few creatures went far without their heads.

Spook tried to lift his head too high for Stile to control. Stile merely hung on, though his feet left the ground. After a moment the dead weight became too much, and the horse brought his head down. Other stable hands used a martingale on him, a strap to keep the head low, but that made this horse even more excitable. Stile preferred the gentle approach.

At last he got Spook to the lunging tree. “Walk!” he commanded, making a token gesture with the whip.  The horse sighed, eyed him, and decided to humor him this once. He walked.

Every horse was an individual. “Spook, you’re more trouble than a stableful of rats, but I like you,” Stile said calmly. “Let’s get this over with, work up a sweat, then I’ll rub you down. After that, it’s the pasture for you. How does that sound?”

Spook glanced at him, then made a gesture with his nose toward the pasture. Horses’ noses, like their ears, were very expressive; a nose motion could be a request or an insult. “Lunge first,” Stile insisted.

Spook licked his lips and chewed on a phantom delicacy. “Okay!” Stile said, laughing. “A carrot and a rubdown. That’s my best offer. Now trot. Trot!”

It was all right. The horse broke into a classy trot Any horse was pretty in that gait, but Spook was prettier than most; his glossy black hide fairly glinted, and he had a way of picking up his feet high that accentuated the precision of his motion. The workout was going to be a success.