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