Rawhide Reatta

Ben Blake was a boyhood friend of mine about my age with dark curly hair and brown eyes. His build was muscular and he was governed by an impetuous flaring temperament. He never had a horse of his own but wasn't too proud to borrow one from somebody's pasture if the need arose. Them mountains to the south-west had been beckoning me for quite awhile. Finally I got together a couple of cans of tomatoes and a can of corn, a loaf of bread, maybe something else. I had some matches in my pocket and a blanket to roll up in, an extra tie rope and some rope hobbles. Me and Ben agreed to meet down by Bloomington early next morning. That way we'd get going early and it was better for Ben to borrow his horse before too many people were up stirring around.

I was there on the south bank when he came splashing down the river on a big dark colored mare. We headed out over the rolling hills to the south and a little west. Hadn't gone but 4 or 5 miles when we sees this bunch of wild jackasses, only they ain't wild in the same sense as mustangs. They'll run a little but don't stampede and overly exert themselves like a wild horse. There's both blacks and grays in the bunch. They quit their grazing and with big ears pointed our way wonder what we're going to do. We've both got our little bundle of grub rolled up in a blanket that we're carrying along on our horses, which is somewhat awkward as we're bareback. So after a hurried conference we decide it'd be nice to have a pack animal to carry our supplies on. My black gelding, Cheeko, is the fleetest of foot, so I hand my grub roll to Ben and take to them. They hardly get lined out to running when I dab my loop over the head of a big black jenny. The other end of the rope is tied around Cheeko's chest because she'll pull hard to get away. She does yank him around some but we soon get our little packs draped and tied over her back and with a handmade rope halter we head out, one of us driving, the other leading her.

She's a contrary critter and we don't make very good mileage. After another mile she ain't getting any better and it's plain to see that by the time we get her well trained it might run into next winter, so we take our gear off and turn her loose. Now we go along a lot easier.

We water ourselves at Indian Pocket, then head west across the Black Rock Canyon toward Atkin Spring high along the mountain side. We are low enough that the temperature is hot in mid afternoon and the ride up the long trail seems to take forever. Up ahead we see the light green color of cottonwood trees growing by the spring. It's a welcome sight cause we are all real thirsty. I'm in the lead when the trail crosses over a steep, sloping clay bank. Cheeko's feet don't dig in like I suppose, but slide across the surface to the bottom of the wash making him lean hard against the bank. My right foot is caught there and takes the weight of his body. When he straightens up, I know my toe is broken, boy it's hurting! We don't stop though, our thirst keeps us moving along.

Big cottonwood trees with a bowery of wild grape vines welcome us to an enclosure of deep shadows round the cool sweet spring water, a wonderful oasis on the side of a desert mountain. There are tracks of coyotes, bobcats, foxes and mountain lion who come here to drink. Also, to our great satisfaction, there's the smooth clean tracks of the wild horse. That's what we are really looking for. By now my toe is sure throbbing. The horses and Ben are resting and enjoying the shade but all my attention and thought is taken up by the pain in that toe.

After awhile Ben scouts around to check the lay of the land. Up above, on a little bench is a corral that will hold wild horses and a wing fence comes down each side of the draw that the spring water is in. Only trouble is that the mustang trail coming in from higher up cuts through one of the wings. There are some short poles laying by the fence to close off the trail but it will take 2 fellers to run this operation. The tracks indicate that the horses are ranging the high mountain country with none coming in to water from lower down.

The only place where we can see any grass for our horses is along the steep canyon side down to the east of the trap. This lays away from where the mustangs will trail in from, which is good. Ben takes them over there and puts the hobbles on. Even though my toe is hurting bad, I figure if some horses come in to water I'll give them time to drink so Ben can put up the bars on the wing fence, then I'll make a lot of racket that will booger them into the trapping corral and Ben can close the gate on them. This is our plan of operation.

Our camp is located in a big patch of cedar trees to the north. We eat some bread and canned tomatoes. It's getting dark now so I limp down into the canyon. Below the spring about 50 yards is where I'll put in my night watch. That toe hasn't let up from hurting any.

Finally the moon comes up over Wolf Hole Mountain on the east and as I look around I can see ghostly shadows under a cedar tree about 75 feet away. It's moving my way but then I can't tell for sure, must be my imagination pulling tricks. Over on the side of the canyon comes the sound of our horses rustling around looking for bunch grass. There is no sound of hooves clicking on rocks nor mustang whistles and snorts from up the mountain side. Wonder what Ben's doing?

My toes is still hurting bad but ain't anything can be done for it now. Guess that was just a shadow over under that tree. Now the moon is higher up it's not visible. Must be some cougars around though cause we saw tracks there by the water hole. Wish I had my single shot .22. If one showed up it'd make a hole in him.

Sounds like our horses have about worked their way up to the top of the ridge. The little sounds of the night come and go, then the hoot of an owl, pretty soon one floats over like a shadow. Wish some mustangs would come to water. There is no sound of our horses now. They've climbed out on the top of the ridge and may be headed northeast toward home. No way for me to let Ben know what's happening. After stewing about it a while longer I figure it's up to me to go after them, broken toe or not.

The steep side of the canyon can't be climbed with a broken toe that sticks out in front. Only way to make it is on hands and knees, being very careful not to bump that right foot. Lucky no cactus plants are growing along my route and after awhile I make it to the top.

Not far away the sound of our horses is discernible as they graze. After getting up on my feet I limp over, take off the hobbles and climb on Cheeko. Then, lead the mare over to our camp site in the cedar trees.

Well! blow me down! There's Ben rolled up in his blanket and using mine double as a pad, sound asleep. What if some horses had come in? I'd have just boogered them back up the mountain.

After tying up the horses and building a fire I got the empty quart tomato can and heated up some water to soak my toe in. Though the can was not big enough to do a good job, it made my toe feel better. The rest of the night is used up heating and soaking and heating and soaking. When daylight starts to come it's feeling some better so I get my blanket out from under Ben and sleep for awhile.

By sun up we are headed out along the mustang trail above the spring of water. It angles over some little benches in the north westerly direction, always climbing higher. I'm astride Ben's big fat tender footed mare and he's riding Cheeko with the dally end of his rawhide reatta tied around Cheeko's girth. No horses had come to water during the night but we're hoping to find them somewhere. It's a beautiful balmy morning. My toe's feeling a lot better and I'm thinking what a thrill it is just to be setting there on this old mare as she moseys along and me a looking at these interesting little coves and benches as the trail winds its way through little patches of trees and brush and by big piles of malapie rock. Looks like at some point in time great globs of molten lava has rained down on this long mountain ridge.

As we emerged from a grove of cedar trees into a little opening, there, coming down the trail toward us, was a bunch of mustangs. Most of them were red roan color but the stud, who was out in front was a light bay. We spot each other about the same instant. The stud instinctively jumped back a little as his eyes and brain took in the situation, then he whirled and stampeded back up the trail with Ben in hot pursuit.

The dust soon settled and me and of Bigfoot continued sedately following in the direction they had gone. We traveled along the trail about 3 miles through this wild mountain scenery really enjoying our ride when here comes Ben trotting toward us, and he ain't leading no bay stud hoss either. He has got some wild tales to tell of his riding and roping exploits, though.

Seems like when they got up the trail a couple miles farther it topped out onto some flat open country covered by patches of scrub oak scattered over pretty good grassland. Ben's been with them so long now that stud hoss dropped back to check this strange horse out that's trying to join up with the bunch. He trots up right close with neck bowed, looking mighty handsome, when Ben snapped a loop over his head. That gave him a real start and by the time he reached the end of the 50 foot reatta he'd got up a lot of momentum. That old gut line hardly slowed him at all as he took half of it along with him. Then the mustangs all make another run north toward the high points above the Virgin River Gorge.

Well, I am surprised that he ever got a loop over that stud's head. Sure enough, he's only got half of that rawhide rope left. I look it over as he tells the story thinking, "he probably roped a stump and broke it on purpose or at best maybe he did luck out and rope one of the old mares and she broke it for him." My opinion is there ain't a chance in a million that he could rope that stud. But then, I'll never know, maybe it did happen just like he said