Mustang: Wild Spirit of the West Read online

  Contents

  1. Saved by a Mustang

  2. Pa’s Pardner

  3. Every Bad Has a Good

  4. Trapped!

  5. “To Lazy Heart Ranch”

  6. It Takes a Smart Mustang—

  7. Operation Rescue

  8. Our Small Happy World

  9. More Dead than Alive

  10. Mice and Mustangs

  11. The Scales Tip Even

  12. The New Challenge

  13. The Mustang Bill

  14. Failure at Fernley

  15. “Wild Horse Annie”

  16. Stockings Hung by the Fire

  17. At Black Rock Desert

  18. Found—a Champion

  19. The Power of Children

  20. A Growing Storm

  21. No Compromise!

  22. A Call from Washington

  23. In the Witness Seat

  24. “We the People—”

  Roaming Free

  Dedicated to “Wild Horse Annie” in whose moccasins I have been walking these many moons

  1. Saved by a Mustang

  IF GOD has a kind of plan for all of us, I like to think He coupled me with horses right from the start. It is not just my own mustang, Hobo, that is part of me. All horses call to me. We sort of belong together. This could not be just an accident.

  I remember the first time I saw a band of wild mustangs. It was only a flash. My Pa and I were freighting a load of wool over the mountains to California when suddenly he reined in and pointed. I saw the reason. Far off on a mesa a string of mustangs was running into the wind. It must have been into the wind, for their tails streamed out behind and their manes lifted like licks of flame. And just by looking I was out there with them, and I could hear their snortings and their hoofs ringing, and I could feel my own hair blowing and my lungs gulping for air, and I shivered in joy at such freedom.

  I remember whispering, “Whose are they, Pa?”

  And Pa saying, “They’re runaways—gone wild.” There was a look of wanting in Pa’s face, but excitement too at the free wildness.

  “Will they always live there, free like that . . . and then their colts and grand-colts?”

  Pa startled me with his sudden stern tone. “They could! If men don’t get too grabby for every smitch of land for their cattle.”

  Even as he said it, a cow bawled nearby. And in the distance a fading line of dust was all that remained of the wild ones.

  Pa clucked to his team and we drove off. For miles of mountain turns we rode in silence. We were still holding onto the beauty we had seen. I could still hear the echo of faraway hoofbeats. I could listen to nothing else. Yet even as I sighed in joy I felt a vague, uneasy worry. I didn’t want anything ever to happen to them; I wanted them always to be free. But could they?

  That was the first time horses called to me. But now I know that God had a plan for me long before that. On clear, cold nights when the stars are all in their rightful places I know He had me in mind as long ago as that time when my Pa was just a baby and almost died on the desert. But he didn’t die because . . .

  “Oh, the cowards never started

  And the weak ones died by the way . . . ”

  That’s how my Grandma always began the true story of how my Pa was saved. Then she’d clear her throat, moisten her lips, and with a look of joy upon her face she’d plunge into her covered-wagon days.

  “Our wagon rolled through dust. A choking, sneezy wilderness of dust . . . from nowhere to nowhere.” She paused a moment, her small bright eyes remembering. She stared over my head as if the whole panorama of her pioneer days was flashing on the wall behind me. “Our four horses made furrows through it, kicking up great clouds of dust that turned the brown-coated ones to gray and the gray ones to white. Even Nelly’s colt tagging along beside her was fuzzy-furred with dust, and its whiskers white like a goat’s.

  “Annie!” she’d say. “Your Pa couldn’t of come into this world at a worser time.”

  “Why, Grandma?” I’d ask. Even when I got to be ten or eleven, I’d still ask “Why?” right there. And she’d say:

  “Why? Because we hadn’t a home, and barely enough vittles to last to California. And no money to buy more. That’s why.

  “How’d you like it, Annie, if one day your husband is foreman of a big silver mine in lone, Nevada. And you have a nice home with pretties on the what-not and red geraniums growing all over the windows, and all to once the mine closes down. Just like that!

  “And the very next day,” here Grandma’s voice turned softer, “you bring into the world the cutest button-nosed baby ever, and hardly a bunting to wrap him in. If he’d just of waited till we got to my people in Grass Valley . . . ”

  “But he didn’t!” I crowed. “And I’m glad, because then there wouldn’t be any story. Go on, Grandma. Go on!”

  Grandma’s eyes narrowed and her jaw muscles tightened. “The reason we hadn’t any money was because that scalawag of a mine-owner skips off to San Francisco. He promises to come back with a big roll of money, enough to pay off the miners. But what does he do?”

  “He never comes back!” I filled in.

  “And what does your dear sweet crazy Grandpa do?”

  Here I always waited for Grandma to blow up with pride.

  “He parcels out all his own money so the miners could buy wagons and light out for greener pastures. And they did. Meanwhile, we wait weeks and weeks while our little village turns into a ghost town. Then we have to leave, too. We decide to go to Grass Valley, California, where my folks lived. That last morning I watered my geraniums just like always and pinched off the dead ones. Your Grandpa hooked up our four mustangs that he had caught and gentled, and off we went in the wagon that I’d roofed over with our bedsheets.”

  “Were there only four mustangs?”

  Grandma’s eyes came to mine and smiled. “Besides the leaders and wheelers there was a skinny little colt tagging along free. He’d make little forays of his own and then come kiting back to Nelly.” Grandma stroked my head now as if I was a colt, and she talked fast to get to the miracle.

  “Nelly’s colt and my baby, who is now your Pa, were born at almost the same hour. Your Grandpa was so busy running betwixt her and me I wondered which mattered more, and when both babies were safely born he was nigh as proud of Nelly’s colt as of his own son. Seems the colt had some Arabian or Andalusian blood in him that set him off as something special.

  “Well, like I said, we hooked up our mustangs and started off, the colt trailing along. A few days later we run out of water. Everywhere we look there’s nothing but dust and rocks and sand and dust and dust and dust. Sometimes we’d ride all day without seeing anything else. When we come to water, it’s more like soapsuds, and I try to drink it, but it won’t go down. And my milk for Baby Joe dries up. But Nelly is smarter. She eats any old rabbit brush or sagebrush, and her milk runs free and she nurses her colt, but I can’t nurse my baby.”

  My eyes were fixed on Grandma’s. “Then what?”

  “My baby yelled at first, hour after hour. Then he whimpered. And in no time it seemed he got all shriveled looking, like a little old man. One day your Grandpa says, ‘There ain’t no other way. Nelly’s got to be Baby Joe’s nurser.’ And he milked Nelly and we spooned her milk into the baby’s mouth, a slow drop at a time.”

  The miracle held us both in a web of stillness. I imagined I was right there, helping to milk Nelly, and spoon-feeding Grandma’s baby, who was my Pa.

  “Your Grandpa was glad Baby Joe was saved. But a few days later a misery came over him when he told me he had to kill Nelly’s colt. ‘I got to do it,’ he said, his eyes full of hurt. ‘She ain’t got enough
milk for two.’ Oh, Annie, it hurt him so. He’d rather of shot off his right arm. ‘I’ll just wait till morning,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll do it. Painless as I can.’”

  “Then what?”

  “The wind woke us up next morning, tearing at our wagon flaps. When we looked out, all our horses were gone! Nothing left but hoofprints circling the camp, making off in all directions like the spokes of a wheel.

  “Your Grandpa howled like a savage. ‘Injuns done it!’ he yelled. ‘Only Injuns could thieve so quiet.’ He buckled on his cartridge belt, a wild look in his eye.

  “He was right. Almost at once three young Paiutes appeared out of the brush. Their faces were smeared with green and red paint, and their heads decked out in crow feathers. They were riding scrawny cayuses. It was plain to see why our stout horses were worth the stealing.

  “‘Grub!’ the oldest one muttered. He pointed at our wagon traces, showing he was ready to trade for our missing team.

  “Pa’s hand reached for his gun; it was all I could do to stop him. Then I ran for the wagon and brought out little Joe. He made pitiful cries of hunger and he seemed all mouth, like a baby bird. I made sign talk to the Indians . . . how my baby would die if they didn’t bring Nelly back.

  “The oldest one grinned. ‘What you give?’

  “‘You find our horses first,’ your Grandpa threatened. ‘Bring all back. Then we parley. We make gifts.’

  “They left as silently as they came. Meanwhile I prayed and hugged the baby, and your Grandpa paced in fury around the wagon, his rifle held in front of him. After what seemed a long time the Paiutes came back, leading our four mustangs, three of them willing, but Nelly a-balkin’ and a-whinnerin’ for her colt. This time the faces of the Indians were grim.

  “The oldest one brandished a knife. ‘Great Spirit tells Injuns keep little one,’ he grunted. ‘He make good pony. What you give for big ones?’

  “Grandpa brought out a side of bacon. The Paiute shook his head. He poked inside the wagon and pointed at the three sacks of flour and the lone sack of sugar. He held up two fingers and then one. And so your Grandpa added two sacks of flour and our only sack of sugar to the side of bacon. Then the Indians rode off gruntin’ and happy.”

  “And Grandpa never had to kill the colt,” I sighed in relief. “He probably grew up to be a fine Indian pony.”

  “I’m sure of it,” Grandma nodded. “And with our four mustangs we traveled all the way to California. Your Grandpa and me had mighty slim rations. But Baby Joe fattened up on mare’s milk.”

  I wanted the story never to end. I tried to string it out. “Grandma!” I cried. “Did you find your folks? And what was Grass Valley like?”

  “Oh, it was a sightful! Grass green as Heaven, and arms flung wide in welcome, and my own Papa proud as a punkin over Baby Joe, but happier-seeming about the mustangs. You see, he needed extra horses in his hauling business. But it was my Mamma who seemed happiest of all. She held the baby close to her, making little clucking noises. ‘Land-a-mercy,’ she purred to him, ‘your family is a puny-looking outfit. But you,’ she said, kissing him soundly, ‘you got cheeks round and rosy as our pippins. And to think you was saved by the milk of a mustang.’”

  2. Pa’s Pardner

  AND SO my Pa didn’t die. He had a big life to live, and that included me.

  I don’t remember my father clearly until I was a husky three-year-old and we were living on the outskirts of Reno. He was a tall, commanding man with dark hair and high cheekbones like the Paiute Indians. But his eyes were blue, bright steel blue, and so deep-set I thought they went clear through to the back of his head. His business was freighting goods by horse and wagon across the mountains. It was called The Mustang Express. It took him away from home for days at a time. When he was gone, I always pictured him on a pedestal right up there in the mountains, big as God and Moses.

  Well, that day when I “met” Pa, he swung me aboard Hobo, a young buckskin colt with a blazed face and black mane and tail. For a few moments I was riding high. Then my two little boy-cousins came running up, begging to join me; and Pa, always eager to oblige, hefted them up, too.

  Hobo hadn’t been broke to ride three bouncing kids sitting clear back to his hip bones. He humped up like a cat, made one winding jump skyward, and tossed us high. Pa caught my cousins, but he had only two hands; so I landed in front of Hobo’s feet, sitting on my breeches—cushioned by diapers, I’m ashamed to admit.

  Hobo nosed me all over as if in apology, and Pa did the same. Then he sent my crying cousins into the house and came back to me. As soon as he’d dusted me off, he held me at arm’s length and looked at me hard, eye to eye.

  “Pardner!” he said. Then he gulped like he was choking on a chicken bone. He tried again. “Pardner!” he said. “I’m the one who’s to fault. Hobo’s gentle as a lamb, only he can’t get used to anybody in the rear seat. Even when I lay his saddle-blanket too far hindwards, he lets me know. Now I’m going to put you right back up. You sit chilly as a dead Indian and he’ll step along careful like you were a setting hen with a whole nestful of eggs.”

  Before I could make an outcry, there I was riding high again. Pa showed me how to hang on by holding two fistfuls of mane. It was almost like having reins! Then he tapped Hobo on the rump. And oh glory, Hobo stepped out brisk as though he was heading for oats. Pa had to run to keep up, but he didn’t hold onto me! Little as I was, I knew I belonged up there. I felt big and important and supremely happy. I heard myself whooping it up like the cowboys. If I live to be a hundred and three, I’ll never forget my first ride on Hobo.

  Too soon it was over, and Papa set me down outside the corral. Then from his great height he reached over and shook hands. I remember just how it felt—my stubby fingers almost lost in his big calloused palm. But I squeezed back, hard. And that’s when I knew my name was “Pardner.” All through school I insisted on spelling it that way. Teachers could be wrong, but not Papa.

  Besides being a freighter, Pa was a mustanger. In those days the wild horses roaming the hills belonged to anyone. Mustangin’ was an honorable profession, with the horses given a fighting chance to escape. Pa and my uncle would ride into the foothills where the mustangs hid. They’d sight a herd, and playing the wind right they’d drive them into a box canyon, rope one apiece, and free the rest.

  Most times Pa’d come home with only two wild ones to be gentled. Sometimes with none. And sometimes he would make a trade with the Paiutes and then he’d come home with a whole string of half-broke mustangs. “Broomtails” the men called them.

  But to me they were unearthly beautiful, as if God had put a special touch on them. I was fascinated by their eye-lights. It seemed a fire burned inside ’em, a fire that glowed warm and brown-red for quiet-spoken people, but a fire that could rage and destroy if it had a mind to. Since Pa and I were pardners, he said the horses belonged to me as much as to him.

  He never came home from his long trips without some extra surprise for me, maybe a pair of beaded moccasins or a baby lizard. Once it was a “bummer” lamb. In case you don’t know, a bummer is a twin whose mother won’t nurse it and it takes to bumming milk from other ewes. Sheepmen are glad to give it away. For weeks I bottle-fed that bummer until it got to butting me whenever it was hungry. I felt exactly like a ewe-mother, and I could see why they were anxious to let their youngsters go to grass.

  My Pa, with his deep thoughtful eyes, understood that some children are babies until they’re ten or more, and some are just naturally born old. I was grown up at five. That’s what I thought, and so did he. He expected me to sleep with my boots handy and respond to his whistle like a fireman.

  My main job was grooming. Pa liked his teams to look smart when they hauled a load. So early each morning before the sun topped over the mountains, I’d be standing up on a box, brushing like all get-out. The horses would lower their heads for me to comb their forelocks and they’d let me wipe out the corners of their eyes, and even the dust from their nostr
ils. When their tails were tangled with tiny thorns, Pa’d pour Nunn’s oil on them, and then I could slide the prickly things down the long hairs until that matted mess became a pretty good-looking tail.

  Mom put up with my being more boy than girl because she thought it wouldn’t last. Only one thing she balked at, and that was my visiting the cabins out back where the teamsters and their womenfolk lived. She almost put a stop to it, especially the night I tore home screaming hysterically.

  I can remember the evening. It was too early for lamplight. Mount Rose seemed very near, and purple-blue with sunset. One of the teamsters’ wives had invited me to come over for dessert. Cooking was her hobby. She often made chocolate angel pie topped with clouds of whipped cream, and she stuffed dates with pecan meats and rolled them in sugar—even when it wasn’t Thanksgiving or Christmas. This night it was a deep dish cobbler of black Bing cherries. After I gobbled it, I chattered on and on until she dropped off to sleep. Feeling hurt, I washed my pie plate and was about to tiptoe for home when a voice outside broke the stillness.

  “Yep, fellers, this here yarn is about Injun trickery.”

  With my ears asking, What? What? I joined the men who were sitting on the stoop. They took no more notice of me than if I’d been a cricket.

  “Nevada was wild country then,” the old teamster was saying. He balled a wad of tobacco into his cheek, and he chawed and spat before he went on. “This white settler, he liked to hunt and he needed a good trackin’ dog. Well, he meets up with a Injun who’s got a red-bone hound, and he figgered here’s a fine workin’ dog. So he offers the Injun a teensy poke of gold.

  “The Injun shakes his head to show ‘tain’t enough. So the hunter, he adds a pinch more of gold, and then another, and this goes on and on until the poke is dang-near full.

  “The feller’s disgusted and just about to call the whole deal off when the Injun ties a rope to the hound, tests to see it’s snug, and with a funny grin hands the rope over.