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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Wild Horses
By Pat Gott
Upon returning to Cody from a recent horse pack trip into the lower east corner of Yellowstone Park, Bertha and Charlie Daye hurried into their favorite bar at the Irma Hotel to tip back a few shots of whiskey.
Bertha, long on aggression and short on tolerance, said, “I wonder if all eastern dudes wanting to experience a bit of our west will be as delicate as those four guests of Buffalo Bill’s. If so, maybe we’d better be re-thinking taking guests pack tripping into the mountains…that sure was trying on my patience.”
Usually the quiet one, Charlie’s tongue began to loosen with drink. “You done fine, honey. I wasn’t sure for a while, whether Lady Alice was gonna make it back to Bill’s ranch without havin’ another bout of the vapors. You musta done some real sweet talkin’ for her to give you a hug whilst we was sayin’ our fare-the-wells,” Charlie said with a grin.
“Ol’ man,” she said as she smacked him, nearly knocking him off his barstool, “that was none of my doing. She was just thankful to get back in one piece that’s all.” Easily riled, she continued, “Now that subject is closed. You hear me! I don’t want it brought up again, ‘specially not in public.
“I’m going to clean up before we go to the government office to check on work; and you should too. You stink worse’n a bear been hibernating all winter,” she said stomping up the stairs to a waiting tub of hot water.
When she met her husband later in the hotel bar, whistles abounded until she gave them the “Don’t mess with me” glare. “You sure are a looker when you get all gussied up Bertha. You got more ‘n half these hombres steppin’ on their tongues wishin’ you was theirs and the rest are so drunk they cain’t see straight.”
“Flattery like that’ll get you anywhere, ol’ man. You don’t look so bad yourselfcleaned up and all. Let’s hurry and get our business done with that government agent and then come back and check out that featherbed upstairs,” she said giving him a wink.
Bertha was ten years younger than her husband of twelve years. Charlie had rescued her from a cruel relative when she was no more than sixteen and promptly married her to avoid legal complications. They had been loyal partners in life and on the trail since. He, a handsome, lanky outfitter who loved his mules and mountains; she, an attractive blond who was an accomplished horsewoman, feisty, and hard working.
They arrived at the government office looking for Mister Grady. He dispensed assignments to them from time to time. Their last was scouting what remained of small bison herds down on the South Fork of the Shoshone.
“Hi Charlie, Bertha,” he said shaking hands with them both. “Nice to see you again.”
“Same here Mr. Grady,” Charlie said.
“What can I do for you today?”
“Heard you might have some work for us,” Bertha said. We just come in from taking some of Bill Cody’s eastern guests into the Yellowstone and Thorofare area.”
“Seems like all them Easterners want a taste of the west these days. How’d that go?”
“It was an quite an experience for themand us. Think we’d sooner scout wolves or count buffalo.” They laughed.
“Well, maybe what I have in mind is just what you’d like then. The government says they would like an estimate of the number of wild horses roaming the Pryor Mountains in the Crow reservation, thinking to take on a program of catching and taming them for cavalry use.
“And, speaking of wolves, as the bison herds have all but been eliminated, they are migrating west from the plains in search of a staple food source. A sizeable pack has zeroed in on range cattle and the Tillett family, north of Lovell, is complaining loudly. Seems they are losing cattle every month, so feel free to shoot wolves if you see any along the way.
“The Tilletts also expressed an interest in the plight of the Pryor wild horses and are willing to supply men if you need extra help.”
“We could use a couple of hands, Larry Motts worked the pack trip with us, but he hooked on to another outfit this mornin’,” Charlie said.
“The Tillett’s TX ranch runs along Crooked Creek which is on the trail to the Pryors. Bill and Bessie Tillett said you’re welcome to stay the night, re-supply, and/or pick up more men, whatever you need…they’ll help.”
“Do you want us to bring back horses or just count them?” Bertha asked.
“Good horseflesh fetches a high price these days, as I’m sure you know Bertha. Ft Reno, Oklahoma is becoming a remount station for the military and is known for its horse breeding and training programs. They might be interested in sending some cavalry north to check the quality of the Pryor mustangs if you bring back a few. You could then sell them or keep them for yourselfup to you.”
Before they left Mr. Grady’s office, they learned that the last estimate of horses running in the entire Crow reservation, done a decade earlier, was nearly ten thousand. They had their work cut out for them.
Three days later, Charlie, riding his favorite buckskin, leading a pack mule, followed by Bertha riding her bay quarter-horse gelding, left Cody heading northeast past Heart Mountain on toward the Pryor Mountains.
This had been Bertha’s home ground for a while before meeting Charlie. Orphaned when her parents died in early skirmishes of the Johnson County War, she had unhappy memories of being taken in by her cruel, drunken uncle and her escape to the west side of the Bighorns. However, she loved the land. The rough ridges laced with ponderosa, cottonwood-lined gulches and creeks, and grassy meadows winding through the long serene valley. Their route took them past wind-carved outcrops that harbored hundreds of birds’ nests and had sheltered her when she had stolen a horse and run away from her uncle.
She had spent three weeks off and on in hidey-holes where she retreated at night, during storms or in drastic drops of temperature. Some were animal dens full of scat; others were overhanging ledges. Some were nothing but juniper or willow thickets she and her horse could push into out of harsh weather. Then Charlie came to her rescue; she would never forget.
Waking her out of her reverie, Charlie said, “We’re almost there.”
They rode up the twisting rutted road that led to the TX Ranch buildings nestled under a protective ridge. Bill Tillett strolled down the porch steps to greet them. He wore his hair so short you could not see it from under his wide Stetson. His build was strong; his face weathered, as were his hands as he reached to shake theirs.
“Welcome to the TX Ranch Mr. and Mrs. Daye.”
“Please, it’s Charlie and Bertha,” she said.
“Please ta meet ya Mr. Tillett,” Charlie added.
“It’s Bill, and this is my dear wife Bessie, right here.” She nodded to them as she stood beside her husband.
“I heard from Mr. Grady you’d be passing this way soon. You can put your animals in that empty corral over there and store your gear in the barn. There’s water in the trough.”
“We’re about to eat,” said Bessie. “We’d be pleased if you’d join us.”
“That would be much appreciated, Ma`am. We’ll be in as soon’s we’re done takin’ care of things.”
“Name’s Bessie, not Ma`am,” she said smiling.
Bessie was a slight built woman who had once been a Texas beauty. Their ranch’s first herd of cattle was purchased by Bessie’s father, Frank Strong, from Amarillo, and the right hip brand TX was never changed.
After supper, sitting on the log porch sipping good whiskey, Bill said, “Mr. Grady mentioned you might like a couple of our hands to go along with you. Are you hunting wolves or searching for wild horses?”
“Well, both I guess. We’ve been hired to estimate the number of wild horses rangin’ on the Pryors and to shoot wolves if we come across any. You havin’ some trouble with them?”
“Yes, more than usual. Most remaining buffalo have relocated to Yellowstone and the wolf packs are moving west from the Dakotas in search of food. A large pack of about seven, that we’ve seen, has taken to killing our cattle and we’ve found numerous wild-foal skeletons picked clean by scavengers but probably killed by wolves. Found some paw prints. Not cats. Wolves for sure.
“Bessie and I are most anxious about losing our cattle. However, we’ve grown to love watching the wild horses roam this areathey were here prior to our building this ranch a decade agoand we don’t want to lose them to wolves, or the government either. So you see our concern is three-fold: cattle, wolves and mustangs,” Bill said.
“Well, our job is with the wild horses and from what I hear, there are enough to keep us tabulatin’ for a few weeks or more, so we won’t have time to wolf hunt but we sure will keep an eye out for ‘em and shoot what we can.”
“That’s all I’m asking, Charlie. I told two of my young cowboys, Duke and Marlon, to pack a mule; they’re to help you for a couple of weeks. After that, we need them back here for branding and castrating calves.”
“Sounds good. We’ll be leavin’ ‘round sunup in the mornin’, then. Thanks for your hospital’ty.”
Bessie said, “Sorry we don’t have room for you in herewe’re planning to expandbut until then, there’s room at the end of the barn, if that’s okay.”
“Sure, we’ll be fine,” said Bertha, “and thanks for the meal. Good night.”
Sunup found the four riders and two pack mules following Crooked Creek, passing a multitude of cottonwoods, box elders and willows on their way into the Crow reservation and Pryor Mountains.
“Charlie, do you have a plan to find and count the wild horses?” Bertha asked as she rode up beside him.
“Yep.”
“Come on, ol’ man, remember I’m your partner. Talk to me.”
“Well, I thought we’d first ride up the canyons of the Bighorn River then make a big sweep north to west around the Pryor Mountains, then tighten our circle through the mountains and see how we’re doing from there.”
“OK, sounds like a good plan,” she said, still a bit disgruntled.
They spotted their first group of horses within the first hour of riding. The band (small herd) consisted of one bay stallion six dark mares, eleven younger stock between a year and two years old and six foals. They were all black-based colors of blue and red roans, bay, brown, black and striped grullo and dunany color body with black mane, tail, legs and a stripe down their back to their tail. As the riders neared, they noted the mustang’s heads were medium length with a broad, flat forehead and wide-set eyes. They looked on the smaller side of average riding horses (14.2 hands, one hand=four inches), although sturdy and well balanced.
As the riders ventured farther into the Crow reservation seeing groups of 15 to 75 horses every couple of hours, they noted the narrow front placement of their legs and well-developed heart girth giving them an unusually smooth gait. Bertha commented, “I’ll bet they have incredible stamina, Charlie, and they look comfortable to ride because they don’t waste energy bouncing around. Let’s bring a chosen few back with us. Whadaya think?”
“Okay, just so’s we wait until we’re about done countin’. I trust your judgment on horseflesh; you’re the expert.”
That night, laying on bedrolls under the starlit skies, wolf howls and other sounds from night creatures serenaded them to sleep.
The next day, during a mid-morning break, Marlon found the carcass of a foal in a dense stand of chokecherry in a draw. There wasn’t much left of the newborn; wolves and a few lesser predators, coyotes, crows, and anything else with a taste for flesh had reduced it to a chewed-on skull, scattered bones and hide.
He called the others and pointed to paw prints left in the dry sand, partly blown away but still identifiable. Front paws wide, with claw prints visible. Rear paws more diamond-shaped, claws also visible. These were not the round, wide and clawless prints of a catmountain lionthey were wolf.
“Wolves,” said Charlie.
“Looks like it,” Duke and Marlon agreed.
“I’d like to shoot the son-of-a gun,” Bertha said.
“If you keep you eyes peeled, you just might get your chance,” Charlie said.
They rode as silently as they could for the next few miles down a dry gulch, glancing periodically up at the rims on either side. Suddenly, Charlie, leading the group, held up his hand to stop, then pointed up the ridge. He’d spotted four wolves sunning themselves atop a ledge about 300 yards up the north rim. Putting his finger to his lips to indicate quiet, he unsheathed his rifle and pointed the others should do the same. Using hand signs only, Charlie held up four fingers, pointed to the wolves and pointed to each of the four riders. He indicated he would take the first one, Bertha the second, Duke the third and Marlon the fourth. They all aimed, Charlie shot first and the other three shots followed immediately. The wolves lay still.
“Looks to be a den about a fifty feet upslope and to the west,” Charlie said, “I wonder if there’s pups in there.”
Duke said, “Do you want me to ride up and check.”
“No. We don’t have time to mess with wolves. If there’s pups, hopefully we killed the mother and that should be the end of them too. At least there’s four less of ‘em now.”
They left the canyon areas after two days and rode northwest up ridges with spectacular sweeping views of valleys, gorges, ravines and chasm. “Wow!” exclaimed Bertha after reaching the summit one ridge. “I can see four different herds. With that spyglass, Charlie you can count them from here. All I see are masses of horses.”
They counted six herds ranging from 50 to 150 horses each, that day. Their total was already up to 2000 head.
The next few days proved the same, riding rims and ridges covered with conifers, glassing valleys, gorges, and gulches, and counting wild horses. They spotted elk and big horn sheep in the high mountain elevations, mule and white tailed deer, and antelope on the lower slopes. No shortage of game. The riders feasted on venison nightly.
On their tenth day out, they encountered three Crow Indians at one of the animal watering holes. They were riding mountain mustangs. One, David Black Horse, spoke English. Charlie told him they were counting wild horses in the mountains and said, “We’ve counted eight thousand like yours. Are they good horses?”
David Black Horse sat taller and puffed out his chest, saying, “The best. Run fast, run long.”Bertha listened intently. When asked about the number of horses ranging throughout their reservation that were not in the Pryor Mountains, David Black Horse said, “As many as are in the mountains, there are on the plains also. We have plenty horses for many, many years they have been here.”
After complimenting the Crows on their fine animals and thanking them for their information, Charlie guided the group up to an old abandoned silver mine where they could rest their horses as he devised a plan. He sat quietly for a while then said, “I’m thinkin’ we’re near completin’ the inner circle in these mountains…maybe three more days. From here on Bertha, you look over the small bachelor bands real good and we’ll be scoutin’ us a small ravine where we can drive horses into a corner and rope us a few good onesafter we’ve completed countin’, that is.”
Two days later, Bertha exclaimed, “There, in that valley below. There are three nice-looking young stallions grazing one end and a small family band at the other. I’m going down alone to take a closer look.”
“Okay,” Charlie said. “We’ll wait for you here.”
Bertha was a natural horsewoman with an uncanny ability to understand and communicate with horses. She tied her bay gelding to a low-branched ponderosa and descended to the valley floor slowly until she was within 20 yards of the three bachelors. There was a black and bay with fine coats, and gray roan with a wavy coat and kinky mane and tail. They all exhibited the broad flat forehead with a long and silky forelock, and soft, almond-shaped, expressive eyes. Their muzzles were narrow and refined; ears deep set and alert to her every move. Their crescent shaped nostrils expanded smelling her scent in the air. Their slightly crested necks, accented with long, silky manes, were medium length, proportioned to size and inserted well into their shoulders, which were long and sloping to the natural slant of their pasterns. They had well defined withers with a smooth transition from their necks to their backs. What magnificent horses, she thought.
Bertha walked slowly to her horse and continued riding to the far end of the valley to observe the family band. The golden colored alpha mare spotted her while she was still several hundred yards away and the black stallion leader warned her to keep her distance with a loud, shrill whinny. The other band members became instantly alert. There were two bay mares and three lively foals: one, light reddish, and the other two, dark. Their conformation was similar to the bachelors, probably the same family.
Bertha returned to the others, face flushed, words spilling out too fast. “I want them…or some of them…they are gorgeous!”
“Okay then, let’s finish up countin’ tomorrow then return and see what we can plan for capturing a few,” Charlie said.
“Duke, are you and Marlon in for a roundup, of sorts?”
“Sure,” said Duke, not mentioning he had never been party to one.
“I’m game,” chimed in Marlon. “Haven’t had me a roundup in a couple of years.”
Roundup day. The riders worked together and plugged one end of a narrow ravine, off the valley floor. Their plan was to run the two bunches together and then head them into the ravine, closing the makeshift gate they had built from downed ponderosa and cut junipers. If they roped their choice horses quickly then let the remaining free again, it would be less chaotic and over rapidly. They had cut, sharpened one end, and pounded four posts into the ground to secure the roped horses until they settled down.
The plan worked like clockwork until the mustangs were confinedtoo many stallions in too close quartersand all hell broke loose as the band stallion began fighting with one of the young stallions.
“Let’s get in therefastand get a rope on whatever horse you want, then snub ‘em good so you don’t lose ‘em when the rest go free,” Bertha yelled over the noise of whinnying, squealing, snorting, and stomping.
“I want the palomino mare; and Charlie, can you rope the black colt for me?” Taking charge, she said, “Let’s go boys.”
Pandemonium ensued. Marlon roped the gray colt; Charlie roped the young black; Bertha roped the golden mare, trying to keep her reddish foal near her at the same time. Duke tried twice to rope the young bay colt fighting the leader but lost his concentration, and thus his aim, as the black band stallion turned on him. The others snubbed their horses and ran to help.
Bertha yelled, “Marlon, get the gate open, quick,” as she stepped between the black and Duke, swinging her lariat round and round to keep the stallion’s attention off Duke, who was sprawled on the ground. Charlie hauled Duke out of the way just in time to avoid the frenzied two stallions, two mares, and three foals as they dashed out the gate to freedom. Then, in answer to his dam’s frantic whinny, the light reddish foal hesitantly returned to her side.
Whew! That was exciting! Bertha thought as she sagged against the makeshift gate. The men made their way over to inspect their catch. Recovering, she walked to where they were standing and admired the glistening and nervous mustangs. Still giving orders, she said, “Let’s move real slowly, boys, talk softly and see if they’ll quiet down. Duke, you haul some water and feed in here. Marlon, close the gate again. Charlie and I will loosen the snubs in a few minutes but still keep them tied for a while longer.”
While the men set up camp, Bertha continued to stay in the makeshift corral with the horses…standing, sitting, singing softly, walking slowly, and kneeling down to the foal’s level to let the filly sniff. She would wait until she got back to their log cabin and corrals on the North Fork of the Shoshone before she’d gentle and train them. Meanwhile, she would work quietly around them getting them to trust her and not be frightened. Already she had made a makeshift rope halter for the mare and slipped it on her without being bitten or driven off, and befriended the filly figuring it would show the mare that her intentions were good and would be an easy way to gain the mare’s trust. She would not attempt to gentle the black until Charlie gelded him back at their homestead.
She figured the black colt was around three years old; the other gray colt appeared younger. Although the mare looked in good health, Bertha would not be able to tell the age until she could check the mare’s teeth. The filly, she named Sunset, was no more than four months old.
They relaxed the remainder of the day to rest their horses and summarize their wild-horse count. Charlie’s final tally showed 11,450 horses grazing on and around the Pryor Mountains, and if David Black Horse could be believed, another 10,000 to 12,000 northeast of the mountains on the Crow reservation. That would please the U.S. Cavalry looking for new mounts.
The Tillett family could rest easier with four fewer wolves to kill their cattle. Duke and Marlon could go back to the den and check for pups, or more adults, if Bill wanted to eliminate the whole pack.
Heading back to Lovell and Cody, Charlie led the young black, Bertha led the palomino mare with her foal frolicking close beside her, Marlon led the gray colt, while Duke dejectedly led the mules. He was young; he would soon recover his pride and, thanks to Bertha and Charlie’s quick actions, he would live to try his hand at capturing wild horses another day.
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