After he adjusted the cinch, he once again inspected the bit
in the horse's mouth. The horse had a
soft mouth and since the new owner would pick up the horse for transport
tomorrow, it wouldn't do to bruise the horse's mouth on the last ride.
"Easy Man," he said as he inspected the gentle
bit. Yes, the horse's name was Man. Everybody has heard of the man called Horse,
but...
He climbed onto the back of Man and settled into the
saddle. He had sold the saddle,
too. It was old and he had cared for it
a long time. While part of him hated to
part with it after all the long hours he had spent working saddle soap and mink
oil into the supple leather--it really made no sense to keep a saddle if you
were selling your last horse.
He had thought briefly about painting the saddle turquoise
and selling it to some damn fool art gallery in Santa Fe. Just last summer his wife had dragged him
kicking and screaming to the row of galleries on Canyon Road, where each was
intensely proud that its multi-million dollar adobe building was still on a gravel road. Evidently, everyone was trying to ignore the
fact that the trendy galleries in the 'City Different' were less than a mile
from the state capitol building.
In one of the galleries, he had seen--with his own eyes--an
old Tony Lama boot painted purple, with a cactus growing out of the top. (And they had wanted $500 for it!) He figured there had to be some damn fool
Californian that would pay twice as much for a whole saddle!
He let Man make his own way down the long dirt road they had
ridden so many times before. It was only
at the entrance to the large pecan orchard where he reined the tall horse off
the beaten path and into the orchard. He
had gotten permission from the farmer to cut across the huge pecan farm. Since this was his last ride on his own horse,
he had planned to make it special--something he had never done before.
It was cool under the endless rows of pecan trees. To insure maximum efficiency during
irrigation, the ground was as flat as a
schoolmarm's chest. He had heard that
the owners used lasers to level the land, but he wasn't sure he believed that.
He had, however, seen the farm workers use something
incredible. This farm had a machine that
drove up to the tree and grabbed the trunk with a large mechanical hand. Then a giant net wrapped around the tree
forming a huge funnel under the tree's branches. Last of all, the mechanical hand shook the
Bejeezus out of the tree, causing a gazillion pecans to fall into the
funnel. Within seconds, the net folded
back up, the hand released the trunk, and the machine was driven to the next
tree.
He had never asked what this machine was called--he was
afraid that it might be something mundane like 'Shaker' or 'Pecan Picker'. He preferred to call it the Bejeezus
Machine. And he lusted for one. He had
looked for one at every farm machinery auction for years without luck. He didn't own a single pecan tree, but he
really wanted to drive the Bejeezus Machine into town and shake the peewiddling
crap out of the damn parking meters that were springing up like weeds all over
town.
When he told his wife his vision of flying quarters, she'd
accused him of being childish. Maybe so,
but he knew Paul Newman would approve.
(Well, at least Cool Hand Luke would!)
There were no Bejeezus Machines present in the orchard
today, but he did ride fairly close to the site of old Fort Fillmore. He reined in his horse and watched a couple
of squirrels chase each other under the trees.
However the ground had been leveled and there was nothing left of the
old fort. Looking around, he wondered if
old General George Pickett (famous for a failed charge at the Battle of
Gettysburg), would recognize anything if he were to come back to the old fort
he had once commanded. Not much
recognizable remained, however: the only thing that hadn't changed was the view
of the Organ Mountains.
During the Civil War, the fort had been burned. Despite having more men and a fort, when 300
Texans had attacked from Texas, Major Lynde had led his 500 men out into the
desert after destroying the fort’s stores. Evidently, some of his men had decided the
best way to destroy the fort’s medicinal whiskey was to run it
through their own systems first, so the soldiers filled their canteens with
whiskey and marched out into the desert under the hot summer sun. Baylor Pass is named for the Confederate
commander who had captured those parched soldiers when they finally
surrendered, at the site where they surrendered. As far as the
rider knew, not a damn thing had been named after Major Lynde.
He let the horse continue his way west, eventually reaching
the Old El Paso highway and the railroad tracks that led north. He turned the horse northward and let the
horse walk on the cleared ground between the railroad tracks and the highway.
Within a few minutes, he heard the distant sound the Santa
Fe train coming up from El Paso. Turning
the horse, he carefully moved as far away as possible from both the highway and
the tracks. Dismounting, he took a firm
hold of Man’s reins as the train came closer, than
rumbled by.
Man was about as calm and gentle a horse as he had ever
owned. (Personally, he thought the horse
had a general and fairly constant air of total boredom.) He knew the horse was perfectly calm riding
near traffic, even ignoring the occasional car horns honking—but
a train was another matter. He had no
intention of being on a horse that panicked and ran out into the middle of a
highway. Or onto a railroad track.
Perhaps, just to show him that he was being foolish, Man
turned to watch the train for a few seconds, then lowered his head and began
munching on the grass that grew along the fence line. This calm disposition was why the new owner
had wanted to buy the horse: he intended to use him to play polo in El Paso.
The rider had never played cow pasture pool, and had no idea
what made a good polo pony, but he personally doubted that Man would make a
suitable mount. However, that was the
next owner's problem, not his.
Slowly, he was approaching the small village of
Mesilla. While the traffic increased
slightly, it was not exactly what you would call busy. It was midday, and the small town had
attracted the usual tourists, who mixed with the few locals going about their
business.
The tiny village had been founded after the Mexican American
War, when Mexico had ceded most of the southwest to the United States. Mexican citizens, not happy with suddenly
becoming Americans, had crossed the Rio Grande and founded a new town in
Mexico. Mexico appreciated the
patriotic gesture so much that seven years later, they had sold a parcel of
land, the Gadsden Purchase, comprising the bottom strip of present day Arizona
and New Mexico, to the United States. So
the citizens of Mesilla suddenly found themselves American citizens, again.
He guided the horse around the old plaza, and just for the
fun of it, rode around all four sides of the plaza, before coming back to the
El Patio bar. By now, he was aware that
the tourists gathered in the plaza were delighted to see someone on
horseback. He stopped Man in front of the
hitching rail located at the bar and dismounted and tied the horse
securely. This hitching rail, his
intended destination, was not only the only one left in the plaza, but as far
as he knew, the only one left in New Mexico.
He was pretty sure there had to be another one somewhere,
but he didn't know where it was.
He sat at a table near the window in the bar and ordered a
beer and a burger. And while he ate, he
kept an eye on his horse, and thought about the plaza. Right out there, they had signed the
agreement for the Gadsden Purchase. The
plaza had seen the likes of Pat Garrett, Billy the Kid, Pancho Villa, and John
Wesley Hardin. Now, it was crowded with
tourists buying genuine Wild West souvenirs from China.
The Butterfield Stage and the Pony Express used to stop
here. The building at the corner had
been the Confederate Capitol of Arizona--at least until the Union retook
Mesilla. Today, tour buses brought
tourists to experience a little piece of the real West, each of them looking
for John Wayne.
Half the town depended on the tourist income and the other
half were from California and had built "casitas" in trendy
southwestern style. Mesilla was one of
those towns in which there were more houses and fewer people every year. The town survived by selling a little of
itself every day.
He paid for his food and as he left the bar, there was a
scattering of small kids admiring his horse.
Smiling at the kids, he untied his horse and swung up into the
saddle. As he did, he was acutely aware of
having his picture taken. It was time to
head home and end the last ride.
"Excuse me," one of the tourists asked. "Do you ride your horse into town
often?"
He stared at the tourist for a long second as he thought
about his answer.
"Every damn day, pilgrim."
I remember my last ride well. I spent two years in the saddle five to six hours a day doing equestrian therapy with severely disturbed and abused kids. I had 20 horses and several of them were almost as disturbed as the kids - mostly the ponies. Ponies are nasty-tempered beasts for some reason. I was moving on to doing fund-raising and had turned the equestrian program over to a lovely Christian woman several years before. She invited me to try out one of the new saddles we'd had donated. She saddled up Cinnamon, my old regular mount and off we went through the woods along trails Cinnamon and I had cut - me mounted on her back swinging about her ears with a very sharp machete. She was one calm horse.
ReplyDeleteI was riding that last day with a bunch of 8 to 12 year-olds that I knew for a fact could and did curse like Barbary pirates. One sprightly little thing just ahead of me pushed aside a branch and without warning released it so that it sprang back directly into my face. I uttered a colorful four letter word in surprise. It was not THE colorful word, but it was one I tried not to use in polite conversation.
I could be excused for using this colorful word because I heard it from the kids probably 2 or 3 hundred times a day so that it was drilled into my subconscious. Turned out that was no excuse on Mrs. Dickens' trail rides.
The little girl turned around and looked at me in shock. "We don't curse in front of the horses," she chided me. "They don't like it."
Turns out Mrs. Dickens, the new equestrian director, had convinced the children that it hurt the feelings of the horses when they cursed in front of them. It was probably the only place on campus where the kids didn't curse. I adopted her no cursing philosophy with the team of kids I fielded in the local youth softball league. It worked great and you'd be surprised how much more you can get done if you can eliminate all the cursing.
I apologized to the little girl and to her horse and mine and finished the ride much chastened. Turns out it was my last ride to this day. It's kind of sad because I really loved riding horses. They are wonderful creatures and next to dogs, the best friends man has ever had.
Dang it, now I'm getting all misty!