Abandoned Horse

Sin, the mare nobody wanted to ride

After my remark to Ms. Cracky questioning her concept of "equality" as I rode through the last gate on the Forest Road, we turned the horses due west and headed over the shoulder of Dead Indian Peak. It was a relief to be in rough country without Yale 1939 looking over my shoulder.

The ranch was still some 20 miles away but the lead bell mare had done this trip for many years and she knew exactly what trail to take down the rough and broken west side of the peak. We picked up the Forest Road twelve miles from the ranch and the ponies got into goin' home gear proper.

The horses came to a very narrow, rough spot in the road and some sort of ruckus ensued causing one of the smaller geldings to get knocked off of the road and down the steep bank through a barbed wire fence. The horse was bleeding from wire cuts and showing signs of distress and shock by the time I got to him. The boss pulled up on the roadway and told me to leave the horse because it was more important to get the rest of the horses back to the ranch and into fenced pastures before dark. I figured the horses would go straight home on their own as they had made the last forty miles with little help from me, but he was the boss, and I reluctantly followed orders.

We arrived at the ranch and pastured the horses at four o'clock in the afternoon with the sun rapidly sliding behind the high peaks of the Absaroka Range to the west. Darkness was only a couple of hours off and the temperature was dropping quickly under the now clear skies. It was going to be a frosty night. By the time we got to the ranch I was pretty wound up about abandoning the horse and everything else to do with the outfit including the arrogant damn Yankee that owned it. It wouldn't be the last time I would have to deal with Eastern money out in sagebrush country.

Observations on personality and character:



During my life I have discovered for myself a truism about folks as follows: "You are now what you were when." If somebody is dishonest, tempermental, easy-going, generous, selfish, cruel, kind or whatever in their youth, they will not depart far from those traits as they travel through life, especially when the chips are down.



One of my less than stellar characteristics is that I am "twitchy." Meaning, it just doesn't take much to get me wound right the hell up about things. I don't let anything slide and if I think something is wrong, I will step up and confront it. I am not always right and have made mistakes. I have paid dearly for my refusal to go with the flow or to not make waves. One reason I never wanted a family was so that I could not be held hostage for the sake of a paycheck. I learned early on that if you want to stand on your own, never have a job, home, possessions, or anything else that you are not willing to walk away from for the sake of principle.


Some folks call my approach intolerant, others call it passion. I call it conviction. Right is right. Wrong is wrong. Moral relativism is the religion of those without integrity and the character to do the right thing regardless of the cost. Admittedly, my conceptions of right and wrong were formed between 1945 and 1960 when we, as a nation and a people, believed in the historical traditions of our founding. I am the product of the Judeo-Christian tradition and the intellectual values of the European and Scottish Enlightenments.




The aforesaid influences have provided the industry, intellect, morality, political concepts of individual autonomy, sovereignty, accountability and liberty that propelled this once great country into the most powerful and envied nation the world has ever known. Our values and our soldiers have provided the moral imperatives and the blood, sacrifice and treasure to bring freedom to more people than any other political system ever devised. Just because this country has abandoned those principles, like we abandoned the little gray gelding, does not make it right or mean that each of us does not bear the responsibility to continue to bear the standard. This country has sacrificed a Constitutional Republic based upon individual liberty for the pottage of a democracy where equality, regardless of competency, is the standard. Free men are not equal and equal men are not free. Damn right, that makes me twitchy.


Meanwhile, back at the ranch:


I changed horses, saddling Sin, a big sorrel mare nobody else would ride. We had had a couple of wrecks early on and found out we liked each other. She would do anything I asked as long as I understood that she was going to buck when I threw my first loop of the day. She would pitch a time or two and then settle down and work all day for me.




I stuffed a halter, bandages, ointment and a nosebag with grain into my saddle bags. Everybody was heading for supper when I rode down the muddy track leading from the ranch to the Forest Road with Chance, my red bone hound, trotting along behind . The boss intercepted me as I passed his log home and he asked where I thought I was going. I explained I was going to go get the injured horse and bring him home. He questioned my judgement leaving at that late hour of the day. I just shrugged and moved on. I wasn't afraid of the dark and I figured he could fire me when I got back.

I rode down the road and it was nigh onto seven PM and getting near full dark when we got close to where the horse had fallen over the edge of the roadway. I didn't know the country and had no idea where a gate might be that I could use to get to the other side of the fence where the horse was located. I didn't think he could make it back up the bank to the road even if I cut the fence and I was concerned that my own horse might fall and get torn up in the fence if I tried to go down where he had fallen through. I wasn't even sure where the horse might be given the six hours or so that had elapsed since we had quit him. I felt guilty about leaving the injured horse, embarrased that I had not stayed with him and not just a little bit angry at myself. I also knew that if I did not return with both horses and myself in one piece that I would never hear the end of it from the experts back at the ranch.

I eased Sin off of the road and, following the fence, we trotted back to the west looking for an opening. Fortunately, we hadn't gone half a mile before we found a Texas wire gate and, stepping down, I led Sin through latching the gate behind us. Swinging up in the failing light we jogged back to the east and pulled up at the edge of a meadow where I quietly sat the mare listening to the country and watching her ears. She swung her head staring intently in the direction of the fenceline. I touched her with a spur and gave her the reins. She moved purposefully with ears pricked toward a stand of trees at the edge of the meadow that was, as near as I could tell, just about where the horse had originally gone down.

We passed through the trees and there in the dim light stood the little gray gelding. He nickered a greeting to the mare and it was plain as newsprint that he was glad to see one of his own. He had wire cuts on a shoulder, his neck and the inside of a foreleg. The leg wound was open and still leaking but it did not appear that any tendons or subcutaneous structures had been badly damaged though he had lost a lot of blood. He was beat up from his tumble through the rocks and had a knot over his right eye that had probably knocked him silly.

I haltered and hung the nosebag on him. He munched quietly while I put ointment on his wounds and bandaged the leg to hold the torn flesh in place. Sin grazed quietly nearby and Chance stood watch while I doctored the little horse. After he finished the oats he looked like he was fit to travel and we slowly made our way back to the ranch in the darkness. It was a beautiful, clear, cold and moonless night. An elk would occasionally bugle and coyotes barked their greetings. The only other sound was the creak of saddle leather, the blowing of the horses, and the click of steel shoes on rock. The starlight cast just enough light to make the muddy road appear as a dark ribbon winding through a landscape of shadows.

Not a light was on as I turned the horses into a small corral with hay and water. I went to my bedroll with an empty belly satisfied that I had done the right thing for one of God's critters.

Far Rider
See to your weapons and stand to your horses

Cowboys and Bra Burners - Part II

The old dirt, one lane Forest Road, now the Chief Joseph Highway, as it looks today dropping down into the Sunlight Basin from Dead Indian Pass.

The dudes would begin to arrive within the month and the outfit's horses had to be brought up from their winter pasture near Cody, Wyoming nearly 50 miles away. I threw my saddle and gear into a stock truck and rode with the boss from the ranch to the winter feed ground.

It was a cold, soggy morning as two of us hands saddled up for the first day's drive to the ranch. The owner put on his best show of supervising the village idiots for the sake of Cracky who was riding in the pickup with him and we complied as best we could. We were pretty sure he was explaining to Cracky just how incompetent we were, him being such a westerner and all. We have all been there with folks like that.

I climbed aboard a big, rangy bay and we headed over thirty head of horses right down Sheridan Avenue, the main street of Cody, Wyoming. It is my understanding that it was the last year it was done. I sure wish I had some of the hundreds of photos that were taken by the tourists. The local cops helped with traffic control getting the herd across the bridge spanning the Shoshone River and we strung them out along Highway 120 headed north.

We turned the horses loose on open range twenty miles north for the night, camped out and prepared to head them northwest over Dead Indian Peak and down into the Sunlight Basin the following morning. The light came grudgingly portending another gray, damp day. I was glad for the new three quarter slicker that still hangs tattered but usable in my cloak room here at the ranch. The owner pointed out which horse he wanted me to ride for the push over the mountains and then informed me that Cracky would be riding along with us that day. He said he would catch her horse and told me to take the edge off of him before she mounted up.

He walked out into the meadow and the horse was not about to be caught. In a situation like that you better read the horse pretty well because unless you can corner the critter, you will get one chance, if that, to catch them. The old boy had his opportunity and missed. No harm there as we have all missed catching horses. The big gray horse spun around and kicked him right in the seat of his pants. I ducked my head behind the horse I was saddling so that my grin would not be seen. It was obvious the owner, somewhere in his not-so-fit sixties was in a testosterone crisis over Cracky. It was pathetic, but now in my sixties, I guess I can understand it a bit. I got some oats and my lariat and caught the ornery beast, saddled him and stepped up. He was fresh not mean, just grouchy at having his vacation interrupted. I didn't think Cracky should be on this horse, but it wasn't my outfit.

The owner did the honors of putting Cracky aboard while I went about lining the horses out down the highway before we headed up the Forest Service road towards the mountains. I turned around in time to see Cracky aboard the gray go bouncing across the sage flats with no concept of how to control the animal. It was a wreck in the making. I rode over and shouldered the horse into a wide circle until I could get hold of his bridle. The poor girl was scared out of her wits. Horses are big and can be scary if you have not spent a lot of time around them, so it was not her fault. It was an environment for which she was not prepared.

Those of us that have been around horses and firearms have all dealt with the claims of experience and competency from those that have neither. I have found males to be more inclined in this manner than women. Ask any guy if he is familiar with firearms, and believe me, as an American male, knowledge of and experience with weapons is imbued at birth.

As a firearms instructor I will occasionally come across a weapon I am not familiar with. My approach is to ask the owner or another student that is familiar with the weapon for some basic instruction on how the firearm functions. I still get paid and I learn something without putting myself or others at risk. For horse folks, it is even worse. Ask any dude that walks up to the line for a horse if they have ridden and they all have years of experience. I would not attempt to rappel, fast rope, free fall or fly an aircraft without instruction. But, many folks will climb aboard a sentient, independently reacting animal of over one thousand pounds and expect it to behave like an ATV. Were it not for the basically kind and generous nature of horses, there would be more graves filled and space occupied in neurological wards.

While stationed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, I trained horses while I was off duty. I had a couple of horses in training at a local stable that boarded private horses as well as rented saddle horses. A group of blacks from the base had come out to go for a ride. The head wrangler was a real southern boy I avoided due to issues of hygiene and his penchant for knocking horses around. He put these "riders" up on horses that were not the best mannered of beasts and one of them took off across the four lane highway that fronted the stables.

The horse bolted out into the roadway with the black guy screaming in panic and was struck by a car. The vehicle came to a stop in the grassy median. The horse, with broken legs flailing, lacerations squirting blood and patches of hide missing, was moaning and kicking on the side of the road. The rider was laid out on the highway. It was a mess to be sure, but as a police officer and combat veteran I had seen a lot worse so I was not too excited about the injured people. There was plenty of other incompetent help running around in a dither to take care of them.

I immediately went to the stricken horse. There was nothing to be done for the suffering animal. I returned to my pickup, retrieved my revolver and put the horse out of his misery. The State Patrol and ambulances arrived and order was gradually restored. I have never understood folks screaming at a crisis scene. Doesn't do a damn bit of good, just makes things worse and certainly noisier. I have had to firmly counsel screaming victims at the scene of disasters to shut the hell up.

Before it was all over, I was threatened with arrest for firing my weapon on a public roadway and for not getting permission from the legal owner of the horse to put it down. Additionally, I was thoroughly lectured by both the uniformed idiots and assorted other Good Samaritans about the inappropriateness of my choice in rendering aid to the wounded animal rather than the wounded people.I would do the same thing again under the same circumstances.

The event was unnecessary and was precipitated by the rider of the dead horse claiming he was an experienced rider and compounded by the stupidity of the wrangler for not being a competent judge of customers. It was about folks making claims of competence where they had none. Rather like Ms. Cracky. Life is tough, but it sure as hell is tougher when you are stupid and maybe a lot shorter. The real tragedy was the loss of the horse.

I helped a very shaken young woman off of the horse, unsaddled him, threw the gear in the truck with the good doctor from Yale and galloped off to catch up with the herd. Those horses knew exactly where they were going and were not wasting any time getting there.

Cracky was driving one of the pickups and would go ahead on the forest road and open the gates while the owner would bring up the rear and close the gates after the herd had passed through. The system worked well and kept the horses lined out and moving without the time to get into mischief.

I just could not help myself. As I passed through one of the gates and rode past Cracky, I leaned down from my saddle and said "So much for equality." It wasn't like I called her stupid or anything. She immediately reported this affront to Yale 1939 and I later heard from the other guy in the truck that the elderly fellow responded with "I'll kill him." You have to be kidding. I know something about killing and I don't use such phrases. I thought it was absurd but this event was the catalyst that would prove to be the undoing of my career as a dude wrangler a few short days later.

Far Rider
See to your weapons and stand to your horses