The wild young man passed over by the
Claiborne executors has not touched a
drink for three decades. And, as when cra-
dling his guitar in those long limbs, every
note he strikes today entwines the diverse
threads of his charm—perhaps even of his
genius. Not just a songwriter, but a poet;
not just a breeder, but a symbol of how
even horse lore can sometimes, no less
than melody or verse, serve as an agency
of the human spirit.
Rich, slow vowels roll through his con-
versation like a stream that has, with the
passage of the years, smoothed all jagged
edges from the rocks that once caused it
to foam and seethe and spray.
