Whispers
By
HH Self

Hank picked his six-foot-two frame up off the ground, knocking the dust from his faded trousers with a tattered, sweat stained cowboy hat. The dark stallion, which only a moment before slammed him to the ground, still pawed at the hard earth, eyes ablaze with unwavering defiance. Running his fingers through dark hair, then shoving his hat back in place, Hank looked at the gate as it opened enough to let the Indian enter.

Whisperer, my ass, he thought. He looked at Jake who motioned him toward the opening. Let her have her try then I can get back to work, Hank told himself. As the two passed, Hank could see the Whisperer’s dark eyes were as cold and defiant as those of the stallion. “Mumbo jumbo bull,” he whispered loud enough for her to hear. Her reply came in Paiute, but her tone made her meaning clear.

Hank pulled the gate closed and stood by Jake. “This is bull—”

“Give it a chance, Hank,” Jake said and then spat on the ground. “Ain’t no shame; you broke more horses here than anyone. This one is just different so we’re gonna try a different way.”

Hank placed one foot on the weatherworn bottom rail of the fence and looked back toward the Indian and horse. She inched her way closer to the stallion. As she did, her whole demeanor changed. The cold dark brown eyes he saw before now sparkled. The way she carried her body became open, warm and calm. Her arms hung by her sides, palms facing forward. “Going to get her fool self killed,” Hank snapped, never looking at Jake.

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last updated December, 2007