12 • RANGE MAGAZINE • SUMMER 2013

W hen the dust begins settling weremember the horses. We recallthe mounts, good and bad, the

days spent horseback, the scenes viewedthrough cow-ponies’ ears, and the friendswho rode beside us. When the dust beginssettling we appraise our future by expecteddays horseback, and as friends pass we say atfunerals, “At least he was horseback up to theend.” We only really mourn those whohaven’t this eulogy.

When my father, Johnny Moore, died at69, his family and friends said it. “He washorseback up to the end.”

My partner Lynne Taylor passed at 71.He spent the day before his death workinghorseback. Horseback up to the end.

My friend Denny Looman died at 69,leaving the track where he’d just galloped hisracehorses.

They passed too young, but they werehorseback up to the end. And at the end, isthere any stronger symbol of the West thanthe riderless horse at a funeral? And yet, thisis seldom the deceased’s favorite mount—though it could have been. Definitely, it washis last, and being his last, counted amonghis favorites.

What great trust we place in the animalthat packs us as we age. With what affectionwe hold them in our hearts.

Yet, this love story begins much soonerwith the first horse of our youth. Not the firsttwo or three we’re placed on, but the first thatis ours to break. Mine was a nightmare. A lit-tle blue roan called Ribbon Tail, the ill-begot-ten product of a poorly planned pairing of aShetland mare and a leopard Appaloosa stal-lion. Ribbon Tail had wood for brains butiron for will. He was mean, barn sour, andimmune to pain. And when I was 10 he wasmine to break. He almost broke me. Finally,after two years of torment, my bantam-sizedmother pecked my father into submissionand Ribbon Tail was sold to pack-string pur-gatory, wedged into a long line of mules.

Any love I had for horses could have diedwith that blue roan but my dad came homefrom the sales barn one day with a stylishmisfit—a crop-out sorrel overo yearlingthat’d gone through the ring loose. Dad paid

$70 for him, gave him to me, and I namedhim Gusto.

Gusto was everything Ribbon Tail wasn’t.As a two-year-old he took to the saddle easi-ly, reined naturally, and galloped smootherthan sunlight washing across glass. His eyeswere big, soft, and deep, but at their depthsburned enough fire to smoke through longdays. He stood 14.3 with a long hip, balancedneck, and trim head. His one fault was around back with not enough wither, but thispaled against his athleticism and savvy. Hewas a natural cow horse. My father anduncles, astride their hardheaded range hors-es, knew to ease aside when Gusto and Ientered a herd to cut dries. It wasn’t me theyrespected, that’s for sure. It was the splashpaint and what he would do for me.

When adventure took me on the road,into marriage and military service, my kidsister started Gusto on barrels. And she won.It made him too hot—always looking for thecrowd, the noise, the nudge to explode into acloverleaf—but when I returned to ranchingwith my city-raised wife, Debra, it was Gustowho trained her.

We put him down at 24, his knees andhips arthritic, his status with the cavvy hav-ing caved to the bottom. He’s buried on acedar-topped hill.

The next great one was Shogun, a RapidBar-bred stallion I bought and cut. Thinkinghe had 30 rides on him I took him straight tocattle. A dark bay standing 15.1, his eye waseven softer than Gusto’s and his legs longer.The wife loved him and he loved her, but itwas our children, Jess and Andrea, who bene-fited from his care. Personality bubbled fromShogun like an artesian spring. There wasn’t agate he couldn’t open and his nickers andneighs had a resonance that suggested he’dteach us to speak horse if we’d only listen.

We put him down at 25, his knees andhips arthritic, his status with the cavvy hav-ing caved to the bottom. He’s buried on thecedar-topped hill next to Gusto. Years afterhis death I learned he’d only been saddled sixtimes when I bought him.

The next and the latest is Shiloh, the resultof me trying to reproduce Gusto by taking arace-bred quarter horse mare to a Remount-

bred stallion. Shiloh arrived sorrel with a flax-en mane and tail and one white spot over hisleft ribs. He grew to just under 15 hands witha solid frame, good muscle, and explosivepower. A visiting East Coast horsewoman andtelevision producer rode him once andannounced, “This is a warhorse.”

And he was. Even into his 20s there wasnot a short-course prairie race he didn’tknow he could win and, just for fun, I let himdo it on occasion. We retired him at 24 andthe last photograph of him at work shows heand Debra dropping a string of yearlings offa gumbo divide.

For the next two years I forced Shilohinto nanny service. Two years ago he babysata stud colt through a tough winter in roughcountry because I couldn’t get to them. Hecame out thin that spring but showed nodimness of fire. Last summer he ran with aThree Bars mare from Texas and her King-bred filly. A week before my 60th birthday Ispilled them some cake, got distracted, stoodin the wrong place, placed my hand on thewrong spot and got soundly kicked in myright knee. It was my fault. Not his. Hethought it was the filly chewing on his tail.My result: broken tibia, displaced andsprained knee, burst bursa, and torn menis-cus tendon.

Two months later when I could hobblearound with some certainty, it came time toput him down. There was no revenge in this.Winter was coming. His knees and hips werearthritic. Dignity was leaving him. We dug agrave between the corrals and the creek sodeep I led him into it. He’s buried there butsometimes I think I hear his heart beatingthrough the earth.

How well I will always remember the cat-tle we roped, the miles we jogged, the timeswe walked to the tack room at dark, both ofus tired, neither of us feeling regret. Somethink a horse is only a tool, some ruin themas pets, and others imagine them a friend.The good ones are partners.

Now although I am only nearing 61, thewear and tear and injuries and abuse haveaged me. My knees and hips creak stiffly anda freak neck injury has disrupted the wiringto my hands. At times my fingers are numb.

Horses We’ve LovedThe good ones are truly partners.

Words by John L. Moore. Painting by David Graham.

SU13 4.16.q_RANGE template.q 4/16/13 2:34 PM Page 12

SUMMER 2013 • RANGE MAGAZINE • 13

At other times my thumbs and palms sparkwith pain. I feel like I am losing place in thecavvy. It hurts to recall being limber, quick,and almost reckless because I detest beingawkward, slow, and excessively cautious. Butlike Dad, Lynne, and Denny, I am deter-mined to stay horseback to the end. Yet, inthis I encounter my own selfishness. Is thisbest for me, for my grandchildren?

But how do you explain the love of hors-es and the greater love, I think, of beinghorseback? Can you measure it in a Will

James’ sketch, an Orren Mixer painting, aphotograph by Jay Dusard, William AlbertAllard, or Kurt Markus? Can you corral it inthe poetry of Laurie Jameson when shewrites: “I do not dream of him or the way heonce held me. I dream of him and his horses—their names sliding through fingers of con-sciousness like butter-soft reins on a worn-outsummer day—Peanuts, Diamond, Blackie,Buck, Duchess, Claude, Tequila, Bill, Honda,Shavano, Honeybee, Ned...” And I would addGusto, Shogun, Shiloh...

But I am not ready for this to end. Thereare miles to go, horseback, until I sleep. Myheart yearns for one more good horse. Oneto outlive me. One to be saddled, riderless, atsome point, some time, a long ways yet away.I hope. ■

John L. Moore is a writer and rancher in east-ern Montana. The lines by Laurie Jamesonare from the poem “His Horses” from “Acrossthe High Divide” (Ghost Road Press). Theyare used with permission.

SU13 4.16.q_RANGE template.q 4/16/13 2:34 PM Page 13