He bought the big bay from the Miller Ranch remuda because he’d never seen another horse climb solid rock like this fellow. They would never have sold such a capable colt, but he was crazy and none of the ranch hands wanted him. Too much trouble, they all agreed. He was a fighter. He was too sensitive. There were too many others to ride. Arlo was thrilled to find a blood horse for pennies, but quickly learned that the bay was hell to saddle, and was even more resistant to the bit. After the Miller boys tried the hard way with ropes, tie down and a blind fold, Sangre was having none of it. He was as cold backed as they come, bucking like a bronc the moment the saddle was tightened. He’d dump even the most capable vaqueros, and Miller couldn’t afford to lose a good man to such a rank colt. The old man did not ride Sangre back home to the Sierra Nevada foothills. Yet the Spanish gelding followed his stout pack horse without a single balk, proving to be a well mannered and good tempered. Arlo quickly discovered Sangre had a good mind and he wasn’t stubborn, he was just scared. Scared of men. Those nights on the trail the old man got to know the horse a little better. He began with touch, the sure soft pressure that was the language of horses. As he ran his hands over the hair, Sangre would set the tip of his back hoof into the ground in preparation to jump away when the pain began. But the pain never came, and after a few nights the hoof was no longer poised to flee. Arlo felt tension rolling off Sangre’s flanks like a waterfall. It didn’t take long to discover the colt wasn’t really cold backed or untrained, he was simply intolerant of the bit. No doubt a heavy-handed vaquero had torn his mouth up with a spade before the colt was far enough along in training to carry it. So Arlo fashioned a bosal out of rawhide reata, creating a headstall that would sit lightly, but securely. He used it as a lead halter day after day across the great valley of California. Once he’d arrived back home at his cabin on the Yuba River, he worked Sangre on the ground, restarting the colt with a gentle hand. During those days he studied the places on either side of the withers that had turned white from the Californio saddles with their narrow forks. He knew the old pressure points had healed. So long as they remained pressure free, Sangre could carry both him and a saddle without discomfort. But none of Arlo’s saddles nor any that he’d seen would solve the problem. The colt’s front legs were wide set, granting him unusual power and stability. The only way to get that horse comfortable was to make a special tree. It had to be wide as it was long
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