Del Lobos. What can I say that hasn't already been said about them, eh?

Okay, one thing.

Their relationship with their caballos, their horses.

They treated them well enough for their benefit  — surprisingly, not terrible.  After all, a dead caballo is only good for leather and a meal, not as useful for raiding, escaping from the law.  In my observations, they showed little affection beyond brushing and patting, at least when together. Perhaps for the best; they lived a perilous life they had no say in  — the men knew, and chose not to get too attached.  Likewise, when a Del Lobo was killed, the horse suffered little heartbreak and was free to return to their old life.  I've seen many wearing the saddle of their former rider,  decaying from the passage of time, the wickedness of nature.

The Del Lobos prefer a sturdy mount: a Mustang.  A wild strain that could be found from the scrubby deserts of New Austin  — the toughest  — throughout West Elizabeth, Ambarino, and the Heartlands.  They're scarce in Scarlett Meadows; the less that is said about why, the better.  Civilisation and horses come at crossroads in Saint Denis; the hardy breed of the plains is of little value to high society. Purebreds are favoured there as a mount and for carriage;  sadly, more status symbol than a treasured pareja, a partner.

The bond the van der Linde gang had with their horses?  Inseparable.

A man's class has little use for the horse — it is of the quality of the man holding the reins.

Inspired by the Del Lobos,  I was bound and determined to gentle a Mustang — but unlike those unfortunate creatures, I wanted to form a strong bond.

I even dreamed of the horse before I saw him — a grey overo stallion.

I have nothing against mares or geldings — some of the smartest, most trusted I've had were geldings and mares — but the horse that came to me in my dream was specifically a stallion.

I had to find him.

When one runs with a large gang, there comes a time when a man — or pardon me, woman — needs a little breathing room. It was meant to be that I got particularly frustrated with the goings-on one morning.   I borrowed a camp horse, a little bay Morgan that goes by no less than five names, and headed out for a leisurely trot.  Everyone was pretending to ignore another marital spat between Hosea and Dutch.   Susan? Busily putting everyone in order — to tell you the truth, I had long thought she was the one in charge.

Hosea and Dutch will be kissing by midday, and eventually, Susan's coals will cool.

In the meantime, it was just man and horse, warming up for a gallop over the rolling hills of the Great Plains.  We recently settled on the outskirts of Tall Trees, and I wanted to see what the area had to offer. For Oatmeal, as I called her, an opportunity to stretch her legs.   She had mostly been used for packing on account of not being fast, but oh, how she loved that gallop!

Bison, Pronghorn, even a wolf, we saw them all — and for a moment, all the worries in the world seemed to vanish in the synchronisation of the ancient horse-human bond.

I stopped to let her rest, to have a view of the tallest hill we had gone over.

And then I saw him.

The horse I had set my eyes on was, to my disappointment,  not a Mustang.

Sometimes, even when dreams come true, there is a twist.

Oh, he was a beauty, for sure  — a grey overo stallion, the very pattern of the horse that appeared in my dream, but a Paint.

Fully tacked up — the tack was of some quality, I might add — grazing, but not a rider to be seen.

Stolen and abandoned when he wasn't needed anymore?  Here was a horse of good condition, no whip marks, no visible hips or ribs sticking out to suggest abuse.  There was a faint band of sweat along the edges of his saddle pad.  It was a mildly warm day; I was sweating as much as Oatmeal.  Maybe he went on a bit of a gallop of his own.

But he needed help — a leg through dropped reins spells trouble.

If he suddenly spooked, maybe from noticing me kneeling in the grass — and, well, I won't go into details.

But it would be bad.

I carefully revealed myself; I had to at some point.

"Hey boy . . . "

A twitch of an ear towards my direction, but otherwise, ignored me.

"I'm Javier . . . " I thought it was polite to introduce myself.

Somehow, I expected an answer; after all, an animal such as this had to have had a name.

"And you are who?"

He was a little tight-lipped.  Maybe he was feeling a little . . .

Hoarse.

I held my breath as he took a step forward — to my relief, he stepped out of the loose reins, as if he read my mind.

Whew.

Then, suddenly, he disappeared!

"El caballo?" I somehow expected him to know Spanish.

How could he have disappeared so quickly?

Was it all a mirage?

Then, I felt someone watching me from behind.  It was a feeling I've always hated, thanks to my way of life, intuition — there's a reason that unseen menaces hide.

Then, a nicker.

"Ah . . . "

With a quiver of a smile, and my back turned to my new friend, I slowly reached back to take the reins in one hand, and cupped his lovely, velvety nose in my other.

"You are playing games, eh?"

A horse with a sense of humour.

Not like Baylock, no.

"Checking me out, are you?"

It's important to talk to horses. They might not know what you're talking about, but, honestly, something we both had in common from the start!

"Let's take a good look at you . . . "

I slowly stood and turned around, taking care not spook him.  With him checking me out, I thought it was time to check him out.

My padre, God rest his soul, taught me a few things about horses.   Proper care, how to train and ride.  What to look for in a good horse — not only in looks, but character.  He taught me to 'look for a cabello with a kind eye, and they'll look after me for life.'

He allowed me to look into his eye as I laid a hand on his strong neck, to let him get used to my touch, when I saw it — the kindness in the eye, a certain intelligence.

This horse had secrets and stories that he was not telling me.

Maybe in time.

I was carefully checking his forelegs for warmth or resistance — indicative of soreness, and stones in his hooves — when something caught my eye.

"Boaz" was etched into the saddlebag, in tidy calligraphy.

Fancy!

"Boaz . . . "  

The Paint let out a nicker and shook his head, as if telling me, 'Yes, you fool, that's my name!'

"Boaz . . . " I cooed, picking out stones without much of a fuss beyond a tail swish.  I minded myself, 'go slow, Javier.'  When I did, he was right as rain.

Then, he nibbled on my hair!

I smiled, playfully swatted him, which he cheekily dodged.

"I think we'll get along."

I later found out from Dutch and Hosea — both Jewish — that the name "Boaz" is Hebrew, with the meaning that neither agreed on; typical!  Dutch said strength.  Hosea? Swiftness.

Well, it was a strong name; I could do with all the strength I could get.

But let's go back a little.

Why was he alone?

Maybe, despite the kind eye, Boaz was a bad actor.  Maybe the rider laid in the brush, recovering from being thrown.  Perhaps the Skinners caught him — they make us look like schoolchildren.

But it's time to try for a ride.

To fully mount him when we just met would be foolish, so we met halfway.  One foot in the stirrup as I leaned over the saddle; a tried and true part of the training process to get horses used to the weight and feel of a rider — and a test for greenness.

With a snort, he shifted, making a few side steps.

I hopped off quickly.

"Am I moving too fast?" I frowned, checking the girth, making sure it was neither too loose nor too tight.

All was good; let's try again.

Boaz stood quietly this time, adjusting to the feeling of my weight, and . . .

Perfect.

A click of the tongue, a light squeeze, and we were off.

Oh, we were off!

Boaz bucked.

I cursed something that I wouldn't be permitted to write here.

I missed that kind eye changing to mischief — and did the only thing I could — I firmly held my ground — rhetorically!

"Boaz!"

When he realised I hadn't flown off,  he went on a flying gallop — mixed with bucks, to keep me guessing with what could come next.

Boaz had tested me before an audience — the curious couple and their unruly son, on their horses.  Arthur was on his trusted Boadicea, who almost had Micah for breakfast — I should have let her.

The three, who Oatmeal trotted up to when she had no time for us, watched the tomfoolery with amusement.

"Got a live wire there, Javier!"

Oh, Arthur.

Then, Boaz's nonsense ended — he let me join up with the trio, calm and collected.

"He'll treat you well, Javier!"

The amusement was evident in Dutch's voice.

"Oh . . ." I panted, but patted Boaz's neck.

'Hope so."