A new story featured each month
By Smilin’ Vic
In this story, I depart
from my humor
briefly,
to present a more serious tale.
Still, I write what I know best, of life on Mustang Creek.
Still, I write what I know best, of life on Mustang Creek.
Mentally, I found myself wanting
to run my horse, to put distance between us and that vile-smelling
thicket.
“Who do you think was in there?” I finally asked.
Canary turned in the saddle and glanced down our backtrail. “Prob’ly ol’ Jim and Ed. They’s up at Cotton’s store th’ other day and loaded up their old truck with sugar and canning jars. They musta bought a hunnerd pounds o’ sugar.”
Canary was like a rock rolling downhill once he opened his mouth. He rattled on, but I was no longer hearing his words. My mind was too busy with the pictures that my imagination was stuffing into my head. A few times, I turned to make sure there was no one with a shotgun, stepping from that cloak of thorn bushes behind us to blow us out of our saddles.
We passed into some woods and descended down a steep gray bank. Big Mustang Creek was shallow at the place Dess had chosen to ford. One by one, our horses sloshed through the bronzey water, splashing out onto the sand bar. Soggy branches popped and snapped under our horses’ hooves. The sky appeared as only a small slash between the steep banks and trees above us. We angled up a bank cut to sunlight and grass.
Canary turned in the saddle and glanced down our backtrail. “Prob’ly ol’ Jim and Ed. They’s up at Cotton’s store th’ other day and loaded up their old truck with sugar and canning jars. They musta bought a hunnerd pounds o’ sugar.”
Canary was like a rock rolling downhill once he opened his mouth. He rattled on, but I was no longer hearing his words. My mind was too busy with the pictures that my imagination was stuffing into my head. A few times, I turned to make sure there was no one with a shotgun, stepping from that cloak of thorn bushes behind us to blow us out of our saddles.
We passed into some woods and descended down a steep gray bank. Big Mustang Creek was shallow at the place Dess had chosen to ford. One by one, our horses sloshed through the bronzey water, splashing out onto the sand bar. Soggy branches popped and snapped under our horses’ hooves. The sky appeared as only a small slash between the steep banks and trees above us. We angled up a bank cut to sunlight and grass.
<>
My little horse jumped across a small washout in the trail. I looked up in time to see Dess’ hand go up, signaling us to stop. A mixed herd of horses grazed in a large clearing.
“Some o’ John Dee’s horses.” Canary explained.
Dess called over his shoulder as he moved forward, “You boys, wait here while I see if any of mine are here.”
A few horses nickered to each other and a stud horse snorted and ran out to meet the Stetsoned rider. The stud tossed his head and pranced back and forth to stop the rider’s approach.
Dess soon motioned for us to join him. His horses were not among the herd.
Your
response and feedback concerning this
story is greatly
appreciated.
Episode 4 Coming Soon
Cowboy Portraits by Western Artist, Vic Cox
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or Comments
Copyright © 2000 by Vic Cox. All rights reserved
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- Mustang Cowboy
- Tune in as I give accounts of some true tales of mustang creek as experienced by actual life on mustang creek!
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Stories for all Ages
Some humorous tales
taken from real
life experiences
that I have had or as told to me by others. Follow the link below new
story
every month so visit me again.