December, 2013

Issue #51

A Horse Story
by Willy Whiskers, Constable of Calliope Nevada

In my occupation as Constable of Calliope it was common to make daily rounds. When the years caught up with me and I had to give up my job to a younger fellow, I did not mind much as he was a war hero; had been on San Juan Hill with Mr. Roosevelt. Still, old habits die hard and I still make rounds delivering telegrams and visiting old friends.

Savanna Sal ran her Peachtree Saloon for decades until age reduced her world to a small room above the bar. Her nephew ran the place by then and took care of her horses and carriages housed behind the bar. Even in her debilitated condition occasionally she would manage to make her way to the carriage house, have her great white horses hitched up and be driven about the town and along the lake. She was known for her carriages and that stable of majestic horses.

Always a sharp looking woman, she was meticulous about her makeup and even bed-ridden she put on her face almost every morning. Age is a relentless beast, biting with crippled joints and toneless skin, so in recent days her powders and masks covered less and less.

The one marring feature she had and battled constantly was the scar that ran from her right ear down across her cheek. As her wrinkles drew deeper the scar became more pronounced. The combination of wrinkles and scar gave the impression of a great river system, tributaries and all.

One day Sal was in a memory mood, so I took the chance to ask how she got that scar. Through the years this subject formed the basis of much debate and speculation. Sal always deflected the question with one fanciful tale or another; she got it in a bar fight, in an Indian raid, or some other ridiculous happening. At my question, Sal fell silent and stared out the window and off into the past as she told her tale.

"Whenever I think of our farm in Kansas, I smell the wheat freshly cut before the threshing. It was on a day like that when Papa came home with a bedraggled and emaciated foal in the back of our buckboard. I could not have been more than three, but I can see everything clear in my mind.

"Papa had Cherokee John with him and between the two of them they got this poor horse into the barn. It could barely stand. It had patches of bare skin; its ribs were distinct with deep furrows between each one and its hind quarters stuck out like a pair of spurs.

"Day after day and long into the night the three of us – Papa, John and I – would sit on the long bench in front of her stall. John was a master with animals, horses especially, and he had one Indian cure after another to aid in the healing. Many times I'd follow him as he gathered plants. He'd let me help dry them, mix them and fashion poultices. It was all magical to me and he always knew what to do.

"It took all winter, but by the time of spring flowers that little horse was romping around the corral. She was short for a horse, about 15 hands and not as robust as quarter horses go. Still, I loved her and took her care on as my personal responsibility. Even at four years old I carried her water and feed, brushed her, washed her and made up her stall with fresh bedding. Papa sat me up on her that summer and I was so proud to be so high up, riding along, feeling her move under me. She was mine and we were one.

"In a couple of years I reached school age and there was no question that I would ride her to school. While I was in class she would graze outside and we would catch glimpses of her through the window kicking up her heels or rolling around in a dust bath. When she came to me she was a dark black-gray, but as a grown horse she took on a steel gray color with flourishes of black whips across her flanks.

"How she knew when school was out I never knew, but as the doors swung open there she would be, ready to carry me home. This went on even into winter and on this one very cold day the kids were concerned about her and made such a fuss that our teacher relented and let her come into the classroom to be warm. I was never so proud of her as she held her bowels all day until we let out in the afternoon.

"The next fall or maybe the next Papa was stringing barbed wire in the south forty. It was more than one man could do so some of the farmers got together at the grange and set up work crews that went from farm to farm putting up fences.

"The hardest part of putting up a barbed wire fence was in the corner. The wire had to be taut and so the corner post had to hold a lot of weight. They drove a large post deep and braced it with diagonal poles anchored in the ground. It was very strong.

"We rode out to watch the work after school and on such a cool day I had her stretch out and run, letting her mane and my long hair fly out behind us. Nearing the men we trotted along the inside of the fence until we came to the corner.

"That's where we ran into the rattler.

"She reared up and bucked me off. I fell face first into the wire ripping this gash." She traced the scar with her finger. "She lost her footing and fell into the wire on her left side putting her front leg through the bottom strand. Trying to stand, she tripped and fell on her right side into the other side of the corner tearing a long wound in her other leg. Panicked, she kept doing more and more damage to herself until she finally broke free.

"By then Papa and the men got to me and pulled me up. There was blood all over me and they were worried, but all I could think about was my horse. She staggered around nearby and after me screaming about her some of the men went over to tend her. There was a great commotion among them and they brought the big work wagon around. Letting down the ramp they lead her into the wagon and we all headed home as quickly as we could manage.

"Mama wrapped me up and went to work on my face. The cut was not too deep, but it was ragged and she cried as she dressed it knowing what the disfigurement would mean to me in years to come.

"When I finally got out of the house I ran to the barn. Cherokee John was already there. He and Papa had packed her wounds with John's potions, but she still bled from her deepest leg wounds. We sat on the long bench all night.

"The next day Papa went back to work with the men leaving me and John. She was in pain. I saw it in her eyes and the way she lay quivering quietly. Day after day John dressed her wounds. I would hold her head and talk to her about things we'd done and would do. Then one morning I entered the barn and she was standing, clear eyed and then she gave out with a hearty snort. I was overjoyed; she was better and would soon be well.

"Her wellness didn't last the day and by evening she was down again and feverish.

"A couple of days later John met Papa as he came home from work and led him to the barn. As I watched from the bench, John unwrapped one bandaged leg and then the other. The air filled with the unmistakable stench of rotting flesh – gangrene!

"The two men looked down at her and then at me. If I'd been a city girl I might not have known what they were thinking, but I was a farm girl.

"'NO!' I cried. 'No, No, No, No, No!' I ran to Papa and held him as tight as I could.

"He gathered me up in his arms and carried me back to the house and told Mama. She hugged me close. Supper was on and she insisted we eat before anything else was done.

"I knew Papa would not wait long after dinner, as he did not like seeing animals suffer and he had to be up early the next day. While he and Mama cleared the table I slipped away. Taking the shotgun that leaned against the door jamb, I made my way to the barn. Expecting to see John there, I found myself alone with her.

"We looked at each other for a long while. Then, in the faint light of the single lantern, I leaned over and whispered in her ear. 'I love you and I will never ride another horse again as long as I live.'

"Standing up, I braced the long gun under my arm and pointed it between her loving eyes. The blast knocked me across the barn and before I could get up Mama and Papa were there."

Through her whole story Sal continued looking out the window into the past. Now she turned to me and said, "I guess now you know about the carriages."

Humbled and grateful that she trusted me with her life's story, I still had a question. "Sal, you never told me her name."

She looked at me with the shining eyes of the girl she once was and said, "Savanna."

With that, Savanna Sal fluffed up her pillows, straightened out her comforter and lay back lightly and unburdened on her bed and drifted off to sleep.