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.For camouflage in summer in Afghanistan, you couldn't beat a dun.Kahar, I reminded myself abruptly.The words my father used for horse colors were perfectly acceptable here.The snooty girls in their English getup who'd taunted me for not knowing fifty different ways to say brown horse were thousands of miles away.And if they were here, they were no longer flaunting thousand-dollar custom saddles.And the grays were kabood.None of the horses would win any conformation show points in the US, that's for sure.Maybe they could show with mustangs, though they didn't have the weedy look and heavy heads of most mustangs I'd seen.The first question here would always be whether a horse could do the job, and second, whether he could survive.My mare eyed me with evil intent, and I returned the look.She danced out of reach a few times, but I knew that game.I herded her into a nook probably designed to trap, until I could block her in against a boulder and let her get used to my presence for a moment.I eased the bridle over her head, the bit into her mouth.She tossed her head, mouthing at the bit, and eyed me as if wondering whether putting up with me as a rider was going to be worth the relief from boredom.While she was chewing the idea, I ran a hand over her back, feeling for any swelling or heat.She wasn't all that far behind her last currying, and that back had more muscle than the rough coat showed.With the saddle on her back, she danced again, cocking a rear leg as if contemplating a good kick.But she didn't kick.She didn't snake her head around to bite me, which was good.I'd have bitten her back, but biting is something I think of as a stallion thing; a mare doing it unnerves me.She had plenty of opportunity as I buckled and cinched.She sniffed my shoulder and hair then, but her rib cage didn't expand or shrink.Ah, she was holding her breath—one of those tricky mares who knew that what her groom thought was a tight girth would become loose once she exhaled.I waited.When she could no longer hold out, her ribs caved in.I cinched the strap tight.So far, so good.Oscar was already in the saddle, testing his mare's responsiveness to the reins and checking for any unusual reactions.From what I recalled and what I'd seen on YouTube, these would have mouths a lot harder than I'd become used to.She planted herself, bracing against my pull a few times.I let her.That wouldn't last.She rolled her eyes at me, ears back.But she didn't kick.I checked the buckles and ran a finger under the edge of the saddle and the cinch, admiring the smooth lay of both, and grinned at Mike.“It fits like it was made for her."He swung into his own saddle.“Roger that.She was bought to fit the saddle.How does it fit you?"I shortened the stirrups, then swung up.“Like it was made for me."Oscar scowled.“Close enough."What? What's eating you?He took off, raising a cloud of dust like some black hat in a movie.I held my mare in, though she danced with eagerness to follow.Echo's stocky little mare jittered beside me, but Mike wasn't up and settled yet.No, Mike was down and checking his girth.I wouldn't have mounted before checking my girth.But voicing that little fact would do no one any good.Mike also made a point of checking his mare's feet, then mounted again.His brows knotted.“Watch me a minute.Is this mare's gait uneven?"I watched him for only a few steps before I called halt.“She's favoring her off rear leg."He swung down, scowling, and ran his hands down the favored leg.“I thought so.I can't feel anything, but the old girl's probably not up to mountain scrambling.Help me catch the gray gelding with the bobbed tail, please.This saddle fits him real well too."I wondered again about the bobtail.My grandfather and uncles gloried in their horses’ long, sweeping tails.Oscar came cantering back.“OGA with tack."The corral had only the one unclaimed horse sound enough to catch anyone's interest."Shit,” Mike said succinctly, flipping the halter off his mare's ears and tossing it in Oscar's direction.“Grab Bob."Oscar backed three paces and jumped the corral wall like it was waist high instead of chest high.I urged my mare close to the wall to watch him approach the gray and snag the halter neatly over its head.He leaned over and bucked the halter and led the horse to the gate.He looked over the wall at me.“Face covered, mouth shut.Even if they take you, I'll get you back.Count on it.I heard the theme song from Terminator and turned slowly, holding in my suddenly antsy mare more with my legs than my hands.Why might they take me? And why I'll get you back, not we'll get you back?Five men, their faces concealed by shemaghs that covered everything but their Oakley sunglasses, piled out of the crew cab of—surprise!—a Toyota pickup! The driver and the gunner standing behind the cab held their positions [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]