Chapter 3: Outfitting The Outfit

Getting Ready to ride the Outlaw Trail

Getting comfortable whilst thinking about adjusting my stirrups the 'horse with no name' barrelled into a fast lope and caught me off guard. Whoa! As we galloped round the arena no amount of reining slowed us down. Again we circuited blindly. I started desperately to look for an escape but everything was a blur. Then I noticed Joe's Mexican hands quietly slinking into view from the barn to watch. They, like Dobbin, had quickly sized me up as a greenhorn.

At a gallop we charged towards a closed gate in the corner of the corral.

'Shit!' I thought, 'Here comes trouble.'

I pulled and turned, to no avail. With no chance of a sliding stop I speculated where I might end up: into the gate, over it or slam-dunked onto the floor? Whichever it was, I knew it was going to hurt like hell.

'Turn him,' Richard shouted. Already dismounting with my left foot in the stirrup, clutching the pommel, the horse stopped on a dime. At what felt like thirty miles an hour I continued my journey airborne and solo, hitting the iron fencing with tremendous force. Wham! My mount stood still, snorted and shook his head. Job done.

Amazingly, in mid-air I had remembered the cowboy's golden rule: hang on to your reins so your horse can't back over you, or piss off into the desert and leave you for dead. Fazed, choking dirt but still attached I clawed back onto my feet. Barbara, watching with interest, asked the horse's name. I didn't hear Joe's answer. I was busy calling the beast a few names of my own, of which son-of-a-bitch was the most friendly.

'You okay?' Richard asked, genuinely concerned for my welfare.

'Yeah, yeah,' I replied dismissively, while noting that I'd shredded my shirt and could feel the warm trickle of blood on my back. I dusted myself off.

'Shorten your reins next time,' Richard advised and walked off.

I avoided further participation in the rodeo business and retired, satisfied that I had provided the requisite entertainment for the hopeful onlookers, and that already the smart money was going on our not making it out of New Mexico, never mind to Canada.

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