But he's only a half thoroughbred.
Shall we start training to-morrow?"
"Oh, goody. By all means."
The long and patient methods of education to which a green race-horse
is subjected were unknown on the Rancho Palomar. Panchito was a
trained saddle animal, wise, sensible, courageous and with a prodigious
faith that his rider would get him safely out of any jam into which
they might blunder together. The starting-gate bothered him at first,
but after half a dozen trials, he realized that the web, flying upward,
had no power to hurt him and was, moreover, the signal for a short,
jolly contest of speed with his fellows of the rancho. Before the week
was out he was "breaking" from the barrier with speed and serenity born
of the knowledge that this was exactly what was expected of him;
whereupon the other horses that Don Mike used to simulate a field of
competitors, took heart of hope at Panchito's complacency and broke
rather well with him.
Those were long, lazy days on the Palomar. June had cast its withering
smile upon the San Gregorio and the green hills had turned to a parched
brown. Grasshoppers whirred everywhere; squirrels whistled; occasional
little dust-devils whirled up the now thoroughly dry river-bed and the
atmosphere was redolent of the aroma of dust and tarweed. Pablo and
his dusky relatives, now considerably augmented (albeit Don Mike had
issued no invitation to partake of his hospitality), trained colts as
roping horses or played Mexican monte in the shade of the help's
quarters.
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