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.
It was
the 60’s, a time when most 17 year old boys were
running up and down the highway looking for a fast car and a fast
girl. Me, I was loping along a blacktop, enjoying the creak of
saddle
leather under me. I was looking for adventure _____and buddy, did
I
find it!
A loaded horse trailer behind a rusty truck rattled ahead of me. The road soon turned to hard-packed dirt and forked south to Moon Ranch. We headed west to Mustang Bottom.
The place had its legends. I’d been hearing them for years from my grandma. Generations of her family had walked the same ground I now sat a saddle gazing over. The ancient family graveyard was located on a nearby hill. I wondered if their spirits recognized me as one of their own.
The country was still a little wild. There were always poisonous cottonmouths and rattlesnakes to look out for. Not to mention, packs of wild hogs and wolves in the dense thickets. From time to time, Panthers had been seen spotted there. I had seen one, myself and heard its hair-raising scream. Cattle and horses sometimes, disappeared because of rustlers. Also, there were secluded places in the Bottom to be avoided because of lead bees that flew from illegal ‘moonshine’ whiskey stills.
Dess was an old time cowman, almost my grandpa’s age. He wore a tall-crowned gray Stetson and his pants legs stuffed inside his boot tops. Dess owned cattle and horses, it was his life. Now, some of his horses were missing. He intended to search Mustang Bottom for signs and tracks. My friend and I joined him.
My partner was one of the Rhodes boys. Most of them were rough as a burlap sack. But he was a runt. He was lanky as a beanpole, big-eared, and had hair and eyes brown as coffee. His skin and high cheekbones showed his mama’s Cherokee blood. Because he whistled all the time, I tacked a nickname on him. I called him ‘the Canary Kid’, Canary for short.
I crossed my arms over my saddlehorn, watching Canary and old Dess unload their horses from the trailer. Canary swung aboard the big bay gelding and the two of us strung out behind the old man. Dess made a picture, straddling his big freckled gray, leading us across the meadow and straight down into Mustang Bottom.
Funny that a 17 year old sees danger as nothing more than adventure, and doesn’t have sense enough not to grin. The thought of all that awaited us, made my ear-to-ear smile raise my hat two inches higher.
……to be continued
Your response and feedback concerning
this story is greatly appreciated.
A loaded horse trailer behind a rusty truck rattled ahead of me. The road soon turned to hard-packed dirt and forked south to Moon Ranch. We headed west to Mustang Bottom.
The place had its legends. I’d been hearing them for years from my grandma. Generations of her family had walked the same ground I now sat a saddle gazing over. The ancient family graveyard was located on a nearby hill. I wondered if their spirits recognized me as one of their own.
The country was still a little wild. There were always poisonous cottonmouths and rattlesnakes to look out for. Not to mention, packs of wild hogs and wolves in the dense thickets. From time to time, Panthers had been seen spotted there. I had seen one, myself and heard its hair-raising scream. Cattle and horses sometimes, disappeared because of rustlers. Also, there were secluded places in the Bottom to be avoided because of lead bees that flew from illegal ‘moonshine’ whiskey stills.
Dess was an old time cowman, almost my grandpa’s age. He wore a tall-crowned gray Stetson and his pants legs stuffed inside his boot tops. Dess owned cattle and horses, it was his life. Now, some of his horses were missing. He intended to search Mustang Bottom for signs and tracks. My friend and I joined him.
My partner was one of the Rhodes boys. Most of them were rough as a burlap sack. But he was a runt. He was lanky as a beanpole, big-eared, and had hair and eyes brown as coffee. His skin and high cheekbones showed his mama’s Cherokee blood. Because he whistled all the time, I tacked a nickname on him. I called him ‘the Canary Kid’, Canary for short.
I crossed my arms over my saddlehorn, watching Canary and old Dess unload their horses from the trailer. Canary swung aboard the big bay gelding and the two of us strung out behind the old man. Dess made a picture, straddling his big freckled gray, leading us across the meadow and straight down into Mustang Bottom.
Funny that a 17 year old sees danger as nothing more than adventure, and doesn’t have sense enough not to grin. The thought of all that awaited us, made my ear-to-ear smile raise my hat two inches higher.
……to be continuedYour
response and feedback concerning this
story is greatly
appreciated.
Cowboy Portraits by Western Artist, Vic Cox
For Information
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Copyright © 2000 by Vic Cox. All rights reserved
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- 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.