“Excuse me,” Sonora said, interrupting the two. “You the horse doctor here?”
“Veterinary surgeon,” he responded, sharply correcting Mason.
“What’s the difference?” chided Sonora.
“Well, let’s see…captain’s bars, a six month sabbatical in Lyons, France, eleven-hour shifts tending the unit’s mounts, public health duties, plus I get to keep the colonel’s dog free of ticks. All that for the generous sum of sixty-five dollars per month.”
“My horse’s favoring his front leg some,” I said more respectfully. “I’d appreciate it, if you’d glance at it. Couldn’t find anything obvious myself.”
“You’re new around here,” the corporal said, more a statement than a question.
“Just rode in,” I replied.
“You boys on the Army payroll? Scouts?” he asked.
“Not presently.”
“Jus’ passin’ through,” added Mason rather curtly.
“Private consult will cost you extra. Ten dollars ought to do, I expect,” Dr. Chapman said rather seriously.
“What?” I exclaimed, somewhat shocked at the price.
“What did I tell you, Corporal. Folks’ll think nothing of paying a barkeep extra for a drink, or for a carpenter to fix a drawer, but they’ll begrudge a professional his consultation fee every time. Even after four years of advanced schoolin’.” Turning to face me, he smiled and added: “Just funnin’ with you, son. You see, for some strange reason, the corporal here wants to apprentice with me. Actually, the Army pays my keep. I’ll be glad to have a look-see.” Then, turning to Sonora, he added: “After all, we’ve only a couple hundred horses to treat on the post. Don’t reckon one more will kill me.”
Sonora didn’t see it, but I caught the wink he threw to the corporal, who rolled his eyes and mumbled something I didn’t quite catch.
“I’ll get the hoof testers, sir,” he said to the veterinarian. Turning back to me, the corporal indicated a spot in the barn’s center aisle.
I led the roan over and replaced his bridle with the halter the corporal offered me. Then crossed-tied the roan.
“He’s a little feisty today,” I warned.
“Corporal, if you’d be so kind,” Dr. Chapman said, nodding.
“Yes, sir,” the corporal answered, taking out a twitch made of a loop of short chain attached to the top end of an axe handle.
The corporal placed his hand through the chain and calmly walked up to the roan sideways, keeping the twitch hidden behind his leg and out of the horse’s sight. He slowly reached up and then quickly grabbed the horse’s upper lip, withdrawing his hand and firmly pulling the lip through the chain loop. Before the roan had a chance to react, the corporal turned the axe handle several times, screwing the chain down onto the lip.
When a cayuse has its lip all twisted like that, it effectively immobilizes it. A twitch works better than trying to hang on to a lip by hand, although some of the stronger
Someone who really wants to gain control, however, will use a rope or chain twitch because it applies more squeeze and allows for better leverage over the horse. Sure enough, that roan stood as still for the veterinary as a stopped clock.
The corporal then wrapped the halter’s lead rope around the twitch’s handle and held it tightly with both hands.
“Prevents the handle from flying up and clouting you in the face when the horse shakes his head,” Dr. Chapman explained.
The fact that the corporal was missing several teeth indicated to me that he probably learned that trick from personal experience.
“Not likely to move much with that thing cut-tin’ into his lip so hard,” muttered Sonora.
“The corporal knows his job, all right. This won’t hurt him in the least,” commented Dr. Chapman after overhearing Mason’s remark. He bent over and began to run his hands down the horse’s legs, one at a time.
“Seems to favor the front leg,” I offered.
“Uhn-huh. Right front. Saw the way he throws his head up slightly as he walked in. Takes the weight off the bad leg. Best to check them all, though.”
“Couldn’t find any cracks or stones when we looked. Suppose he’s foundering?” Sonora asked the veterinarian as he started his exam.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Dr. Chapman answered, looking over his shoulder, still bent over with the horse’s leg cupped in his hands. “I’m pretty good at these things, but, you know, I’ve never yet figured out a way to make a correct diagnosis
He was smiling at Sonora when he said it, but his message came across clear enough.
“Right you are, Doc,” Sonora replied. “I’ll just let you get on with it.”
Captain Chapman proceeded to pull the shoe and, with a curved knife he snatched from his rear pocket, trim away some of the tissue from around the frog and sole.
“Hoof testers, Corporal.”
The testers were actually large round pincers used to apply pressure around the edges and bottom of the hoof. The roan flinched a time or two before the veterinarian finished his exam.
“You’re lucky,” Dr. Chapman said, washing his hands off in a nearby water bucket. “Seems to be just a stone bruise. No sign of problems with the navicular bone and no sign of rot.”
“Any recommendations?” I asked, somewhat relieved.
“Take him next door to Sergeant Emerson. I’ll write you up some instructions to give him,” he said, taking the notebook from the corporal. “Not that he’ll follow them,” I overheard his mumble. “I want him to build up the shoe a little and cut a sole pad to go under the shoe. It ought to protect the sole long enough to heal while still allowing you to ride him.” The captain shook his head. “That is if the good sergeant doesn’t lame him in the process.”
“A little heavy-handed, is he?” I asked, wishing Chango were around to do the job.
“I’ve seen apes in a zoo with a softer touch. ’Course, you understand that if this were to get back to the sergeant, I’d deny ever having said the like.”
Considering the size of most farriers I’d met, I could fully appreciate his position.
“Don’t leave that pad on longer than a month,” he added. “Tends to soften things up, and, if you aren’t careful, the sole will get a little mucky.”
I thanked the captain and, remembering his earlier comments, offered to pay something for his extra effort. He just waved it away.
The corporal untied the roan, and then Sonora and I headed next door to look for the troop’s farrier.
“Orders from the captain, eh? As if I didn’t have enough to do already.” Sergeant Emerson apparently wasn’t in the best of moods.
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
“Don’t sir me. I ain’t no officer, I work for a living,” he snapped.
“Right.”
“And I suppose you’re in a hurry.”
This time it was Sonora who answered. “That’s right. The colonel needs us to do some scoutin’ for him. And he said the sooner the better.”
I shot him a quick look, but Sonora’s expression was dead pan.
“Christ, that’s all I need.” The sergeant had been working on a large gray jenny. He dropped the hoof and tossed the shoe he had pulled into a wooden box in the corner.
Sergeant Emerson was a dark-haired, husky sort, about thirty years of age, which I roughly estimated to be the amount of time passed since he last changed his uniform. It was hard to believe, but he actually smelled worse than the barn he worked in. The remnants of a fat cigar whose flame had long gone out clung to his lips, even when he spoke.
