His name was Midnight, a pretty common name among black horses.
He was out of Moody River, a brood mare who threw some of the best colts at the ID. If memory serves, one of Jimmy Irene’s studs was the proud papa, but a deadbeat dad since he never played with his kids.
We never kept the brood herd very close. They always had a big pasture all to themselves, and foaled out in the Big Empty with nothing to bother them.
We kept plenty of saddle stock close to the barn for everyday work, but the philosophy was always to let the colts get their legs under them out in the sand and sagebrush with momma.
It was always a treat to ride through the brood herd two or three times a year to check on them and admire the simple beauty of a bunch or horses under the Wyoming sun.
Mental notes were made about which mare had dropped and what the colt looked like.
I remember the first time I laid eyes on Midnight (even before he was given that name), a long-legged shadow alongside Moody, running and kicking just for the hell of it.
Moody had a proud look in her eye, as if to say, “check him out, he’s a pistol.”
Colts were gathered and branded as yearlings, then turned back out to get some more growth. We didn’t castrate the stud colts until they were two year olds, being of the justified opinion that they’d gain a bit of the stud conformation before they acquired the stud’s disposition if given a little extra time.
When we cut Midnight, he only offered one testicle to the knife. The other remained undescended, and to try to dig it out would have risked his life.
“Proud cut," “cradle orchid," or “crypt orchid” are the terms for a colt that only surrenders half his manhood. They have unpredictable personalities.
It was evident, too, that Midnight was blind in his left eye by the way he ran around the corral with his head slightly turned to the left.
The poor guy had two strikes against him from the git-go. But he had something intangible that convinced me not to ship him. To this day, I can’t describe what that something was.
Midnight turned out to be one of the best horses I ever rode.
A left-handed roper would have serious problems on him, but I’m no southpaw. He could see the loop with his right eye and knew exactly what to do.
He had twice the cow savvy of any two horses, even though he only saw half the world.
The only time he blew up with me was when a bunch of sagechickens flushed right in front of him ... on his left side, of course. But he gathered up again pretty easily when he realized they weren’t trying to kill him.
Midnight simply had no bottom. By that, I mean he never got too tired to work. Not just a second wind, he never ran out of wind. He had more endurance than any other horse I’ve been aboard.
I’d unsaddle him after a tough day, and I could almost hear him say to me, “Just let me get a bite of oats and lets go chase more cows.” He loved work, and that might be the intangible “something” I felt in him.
I had writers block when I sat down to do this week’s rant. But then I remembered Midnight, and wanted to visit with you about flawed horses. Two-strike horses that teach us about their intangible hearts.
I’m glad you got to meet him.
Rod Miller can be reached at: rodsmillerwyo@yahoo.com
