With the speed of light Twi intercepted him and tossed him up and over the top rail. The little fellow wasn’t hurt, but he slunk away, never to return. Twilight trumpeted her victory to the skies. “That took care of him!” she said, plainer than if she had talked.
It was Twilight’s lightning moves that triggered an exciting idea. Sandy talked it over with her two young advisors. “Remember the cutting competition on ‘The Wide World of Sports’ where the famous horse, Cutter Bill, separated a cow out of a herd and penned it without even wearing a bridle?”
Chris waved his arms. “’Course I do! That horse went so fast, his hind legs whipped in one direction and his forelegs were following the cow in another.”
Pam looked thoughtful. “Shucks, Mom, Twilight can do that.”
Even with Pam’s assurance Sandy came down to earth, suddenly remembering that Cutter Bill was a big quarter horse, not a Chincoteague pony!
She squelched the negative thought. Twi did seem to know all the right moves. What a challenge! What if she didn’t have quarter horse blood? Her Chincoteague ancestors gave her grit and savvy. Added to her thoroughbred fire, she had it all. If she could outsmart a lightning-fast hunting hound, why not a big old cow? Or even a Brahman bull?
Why not?
Chapter 11
GENTLIN’?
A cutting horse is one of the fastest horses in the world for a quarter of a mile. He chases wild cattle, singles one out of a herd, and drives it into the cow pen.
Poor Twilight had never seen a cow, though. How could anyone expect her to perform the double miracle of speed and savvy?
“Let’s not hurry her,” Sandy said.
Each member of the family and farm agreed that the training of Twi had to go forward gradually. They were all aware of Twi’s independence and her free spirit. “Our first step,” Andrew reminded, “is to get her used to the lead rope.”
Young Twilight did not fall in with the plan; she had ideas of her own. What a fight she gave when first she felt the restriction of the rope!
The experience challenged horse and human. Twi taught the power of patience; she could not be forced into a new pattern. She learned, by dint of tolerance and much praise, that the rope was not a fearsome enemy at all—it was a helping device to lead her over logs and up and down ramps. Being of a curious nature she quickly made the connection that the rope opened new vistas . . . new sights and sounds and small animals to stare down.
Overcoming this first challenge convinced Sandy that with a knowledgeable trainer, Twilight could become a cutting horse to compete with the best. All Twi needed was expert breaking, or as Grandpa Beebe would have said, “extry gentlin’.”
So with Andrew’s approval, Sandy and Robert vanned Twilight to a pinto-horse trainer who had a good reputation. The man’s assessment of Twilight’s ability was quick and sure. “She moves well,” he said, “and appears very alert. Come back in three weeks and she’ll be ready to go home.”
With crossed fingers they left Twi behind. She was so young and free from restraints and filled with such enthusiasm for life. Sandy could only hope they’d chosen the best way to shape and direct that fire.
For Sandy the twenty-one days of waiting dragged heavily. She tried to fill the time with work and routine, but nothing seemed to make the hours pass any quicker.
Finally, the scheduled morning for pickup arrived. Sandy awoke to a dreary downpour, but found herself singing, “Oh, what a beau-ti-ful morning . . .” despite the weather.
She and Robert left early with the trailer all spic and span, not forgetting a small bag of Red Pippin apples, juicy and fragrant. When they arrived at the little farm, a stablehand stood in the vicinity of Twilight’s stall and waved them on. Sandy smiled in anticipation as she hurried to Twi’s open door.
One glance inside, and red-hot blood rushed to Sandy’s throat. Who was this nervous, ribbed creature? How could Twilight have lost that much weight in only three weeks? She was cross tied, to be ready for departure perhaps, but if there was one restriction Twi couldn’t abide, this was it.
Sandy glanced at Robert. His lips were pressed tight, and he had the stance of a fighter, his rope coiled in one hand and the other clenched at the ready. “Likely she’s dropped fifty pounds!” He spat the words. “Where’s that dirty so-and-so? I’ll show him what I think of his training.”
The stablehand left on the double. “I’ll get your trainer,” he called over his shoulder.
“If it would help Twilight, I’d join the fight,” Sandy said, “but the damage is done. Let’s just get her out of here. And fast.”
At the sound of Sandy’s voice, Twilight began to tremble. Sandy found herself trembling, too.
The trainer, looking very innocent, came swaggering up to them. He tried to placate Sandy. “I’m happy to say, Doc Price, your pony is well broken.”
The word “broken” cut like a knife.
In a conciliatory tone he added, “She’ll make a good English pleasure horse. Her only problem is not wanting to stop in a gallop.”
“An English pleasure horse that won’t stop? That adds insult to injury.” Sandy sputtered in frustration. She went to Twi and put both her hands on her horse’s sweating body. “You can count on me to fix your good reputation,” she said to the trainer. “I only hope we can rescue Twi from your abusive and unfeeling treatment.”
Robert, twice the size of the trainer, used his arm as a broom and brushed the man aside. With lightning fingers he undid the cross tie and fastened his lead rope to Twi’s halter. With a surge of new life, Twi snorted her relief and staggered into the trailer.
Twi came home to a warrior’s welcome. Carrots and kisses from the children, supplemental nutrients from Robert, and a slow resumption of her home training.
The last straw of shame for Twi’s ex-trainer was still to be reckoned with. One day when Sandy was examining Twilight’s teeth to see if they needed rasping, she discovered to her horror that Twi’s tongue had a deep cut across it.
It was put there, she assumed, to make Twi more sensitive to the pull of the bit. That hateful trainer had done it again! Sandy wanted to scream, but no sound came. It would take weeks for Twi to learn all over again to trust those who had sent her away.
• • •
While waiting for Twilight to heal, Sandy made the decision to register her in the Paint Horse Association. But with a quick refusal, the Association promptly turned Twi down. “That Chincoteague pony blood is her downfall,” they said.
“Ironic,” Sandy told the registrar, “because Arabians, thoroughbreds, and paint ponies all originated from prestigious Spanish bloodlines just as the Chincoteague ponies did.”
Sandy was in no way intimidated. Next she tried the Pinto Horse Association of America and was delighted to learn that flashy color was the first requirement. Certainly Twi’s bold patches would stand her in good stead. After color, the second requirement gave even deeper satisfaction. A single name such as Twilight was unacceptable. There had to be a second name.
“I’ve got it! The perfect name!” Sandy cried. Tossing aside her ink-shy desk pen, she grabbed a bold magic marker and right in the middle of the application printed the words:
MISTY’S TWILIGHT
Chapter 12
THE CUTTING-HORSE MAN
Months later, when Twilight was once again her wild and shining self, Sandy received a telephone call from her friend, Kathy Daley, a young horsewoman who had shown Chris’s Patches and Pam’s Pie as yearlings. They hadn’t won anything in three tries—not even a pink ribbon! The judges had ruled out the colts for not being registered.
“Sandy!” the familiar voice came over, young and strong. “I’ve found a trainer that you—and Twilight—must meet.”
Sandy bristled. How could she subject Twilight to another grueling experience? She didn’t answer.
Kathy’s enthusiasm was undimmed.
“Sandy! At least you’ve got to meet the man. He’s leasing stalls, taking o
n new students, and he lives close by.”
“What’s his name?”
“Richard Rank.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s a cutting-horse man! I’ve seen him work.”
Now Sandy was torn between curiosity and doubt. If there was anyone whose judgment she could trust, it was Kathy.
“Let me think it ov—”
Kathy interrupted, her words tumbling fast. “Sandy, please listen. Tonight at seven I’ll be going right by Stolen Hours Farm. I’ll stop by and pick you up, and you can meet the man, make up your own mind, and be back home in an hour. Bring Pam and Chris along; their instincts are good.”
Sandy laughed. How could she refuse this good friend and marvelous horsewoman?
Two hours later Sandy, Chris, and Pam were hurrying down the driveway to meet Kathy. In less than half an hour’s drive, the carful of cautious, yet excited pony people arrived at Rank’s farm. There they saw six neat horse stalls next to a new eight-foot round pen that had been built for an arena. Brahman cattle grazed in the field beyond. An evening peace had settled over the land. Chores were done. Horses were looking out of their stalls, grinding twists of hay that wisped out from their mouths like handlebar mustaches.
Sandy shook hands with Mr. Richard Rank and promised herself to make haste slowly this time.
“Twilight has so much to learn,” she explained to him. “She’s never even seen a cow up close, let alone a Brahman bull. You wouldn’t start her off with the Brahmans, would you?”
Dick Rank raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”
“Because their horns scare me half to death! I’ve seen them gore a horse!”
The man didn’t laugh. “I have, too,” he admitted, “but Brahmans are good performers. They actually challenge the horse to give chase; they give the beginner an opportunity to learn.”
He smiled. “Your friend Kathy here has told me about Twilight’s spit and spunk and her wild background; and her gentleness, too. That’s the kind of information I need. And I hope you’ll all call me Dick,” he added with a grin. “My kids tell me ‘Rank’ is too smelly a name.”
Without being asked Chris announced, “I think Rank’s a smelly name, too. The man’s okay, Mom. He looks me right in the eye. Let’s go with Dick.”
Within an hour’s time, Dick, the children, and Sandy had come to an agreement, and Kathy, humming at the wheel, was driving them home.
Before bedtime, Sandy slipped out to be with Twilight, to tell her, “I think we are finally on our way!” She let Twi lip her hair while reveling in the thought that now, during this training, she could and would visit often . . .
Sandy meant to give Dick a week’s testing before she went over to see what he had accomplished. Truth is, she and Pam and Chris went visiting after only two days.
When they arrived, there was Twi, bucking and kicking the walls of her stall, eager to break loose. They retreated to a viewpoint outside the arena to watch Dick’s first ride. Dick led the prancing Twilight into the arena and swung aboard.
At that, Twi stood on her hind legs and pawed the air. She reared and bucked and kicked as if she were a rodeo pony. Why, she jumped so high all four feet were three feet in the air! Dick held on.
The kids clapped and cheered. “She’s great, Mom!”
Then, with one final kick Dick was on the ground and Twi was free once again. She had won the first skirmish after all.
The second visit, three days later, proved wholly different, but just as exciting. From their assigned vantage point outside the arena the kids and Sandy held their breath to watch Dick and his helper clip Twi’s coat for summer. As soon as Dick turned on the razor, Twi was alerted and leaned into the shiny instrument. Obviously she enjoyed the vibration to her ribs, but when the buzzing thing climbed up her neck close to her ear, she exploded. She broke loose from the twitch and from the two men, but got her ear nipped in the process. Eyes blazing, she crouched, ready to spring at anyone who made a move.
Dick took off his hat and laughed. “Her message is clear. You dare come closer and I’ll get you!”
Sandy joined in the laughter, more from nerves than from finding anything funny about the situation. Then Dick said, “I like this horse’s spirit. Spitfires often make the best cutting horses.”
Before the kids and Sandy left that day, Twi was back in her stall and rubbing an itchy place on her shoulder against Dick’s back as he cut a salt block in half for her to lick.
As they drove home Sandy had the distinct feeling that Misty’s Twilight was destined to electrify the cutting-horse world.
Chapter 13
DREAM ON, LADY
The story of the cutting horse has not been fully told. What a loss to those who have not seen him work! Intelligence, courage, anticipation, patience, control, tenacity, athletic ability—all are required. Originally he was bred for work, not show. Cattlemen needed a horse of immense power and flexibility—one that could brace himself against the shock of a thousand pounds of wild steer at the end of a rope, and, in the next instant, snake through a herd to single out just the calf his rider is after. The horse took over where man’s prompting stopped. Man had told him what he wanted, where he wanted it, and when to let go. After that the horse was on his own, his job to outthink and outmaneuver the calf or steer.
Anyone who has ever seen a cutting match realizes that once the chase is on, the rider is more or less a non-interfering passenger, holding onto the saddle horn, if necessary.
The cutting horse still works on great cattle ranches, but often the owner becomes so proud of his favorite “cutter” that he enters him in shows against the bigger, tougher, more experienced quarter horses.
Could Twi, the Chincoteague pony, become a cutter?
It was clear that she enjoyed her training days with Dick. She learned to listen for his voice commands and react instantly. Daily her technique improved—balancing on her haunches, spinning, dashing, dancing at the cow’s whim. She learned to “catwalk” into a herd of cattle and concentrate on one cow’s moves. Without the slightest hesitation she could “cut the critter out” and keep her out.
“It’s sheer hypnosis!” Dick pronounced.
Other owners often flocked around Twilight after her training session. Some were astride, some with horse in hand, some afoot, but each fired questions in quick succession.
“Who’s the pinto?” was always first.
Dick answered with a show of pride. “Her registry,” he said, “is Misty’s Twilight. But we call her Twi.”
“Never heard of her. What’s she doing here?”
“She’s learning to compete with the quarter horses.”
“What’s her breed?”
Whenever Sandy was on hand, Dick nodded in her direction. “Ask her doctor-owner,” he’d say.
Sandy, taking a deep breath, would summon all of her patience. “Her breeding,” she’d say in her most professional tone, “is Chin-co-teague,” and she’d stretch out each syllable until it snapped like a rubber band.
“Hmm. That’s nice! But what in tunket is Jinkatig? I’ve never heard of that horse.”
When the questions were asked in genuine interest, Sandy would offer to lend a copy of Misty of Chincoteague. Sometimes, though, the questions were tossed out like a fighting glove. Then Sandy would take up the gauntlet and the explanations would last belligerently all morning long.
One day a big-bellied snipe of a man taunted: “Lady, your pinto’s a pretty little thing, but don’t expect her to compete with our brainy quarter horses.”
Sandy blurted out her intentions angrily. “We plan on taking her right to the top!”
The little man on the big horse laughed. As he turned to leave, he tossed a final twit over his shoulder. “Dream on, lady.”
When the day arrived for Twilight’s first competition—at the State Fair in Tampa, Florida—she traveled well.
Once at the fair, though, her mind was on tiptoe. Instead of remembering Dick’s trai
ning, she was distracted by the new sights, sounds, and smells of the fair grounds—the people, children, dogs, horses. One stallion especially piqued her interest. She tossed her head and let out a string of high whinnies. She was nervous, and she was curious. Cows were fine most of the time, but stallions, now—they were new and exciting.
Twi’s first real chance to prove herself a cutter was a disaster! When it was her turn to compete, she lined up behind the starting rope just as she was supposed to, but instead of facing forward to challenge her quarry, her head turned every which-a-way, distracted by everything. As a result, she got a slow start and her forelegs gave only a weak push-off. She lagged behind—split seconds only—but those seconds were enough to keep her from scoring any points. What a learning experience!
Back to work. In no way disappointed, Dick repeated the test training until Twi moved her head and neck freely in response to the movements of the chosen calf. Almost simultaneously Twi put on that strutting action with her forelegs to make a quick stop. The startled calf put on his brakes, too.
Dick worked with Twi all summer long, grinning his approval. When she hunkered down low, to face a calf full on, she was only two strides away, blocking it from rejoining the herd. Dick encouraged Twi’s every move.
Neighbor kids hanging on the fence rails rooted for the calf. They cheered in defense of Twi’s actions while the immobile passenger, deep in the saddle, yodeled Twi’s name. She was working wholly on her own! She would not be penalized by anything. She was maneuvering her quarry, maneuvering the bull calf farther and farther from the herd.
Fall came on with golden days. Twi, with Dick aboard, went to three competitions in quick succession. And she began to win! Soon streamers with inch-thick red letters blazed above the magazine rack in Sandy’s waiting room, advertising Twi’s success:
MISTY’S TWILIGHT BORDERING ON FULL CHAMPIONSHIP IN PENNSYLVANIA