More Horse Tales

Pearly Mule

Ol' Pearly mule, she's a sorrel and weighs about 8 or 9 hundred lbs, a good pack mule and pretty good to ride. She's standing there while I'm messing around, doing something and not having nothing better to do, she reaches around and grabs the stirrup with her mouth. She gets a better hold than she figured and it's setting there around her lower jaw. Try as she will she can't spit that thing out. Trouble is, she didn't put it back where she got it, which was hanging straight down. She gags and spit on it for quite a spell while Clay and me laughed at her dilemma. We finally got the camera out and took a picture before I go help her with that thing she has got ahold of.

Me-Too Mule

Ol' Me-Too is a sorrel colored mule, a little bigger than Pearly, and she really likes to nose around to see how things work. At the ranch, in the silver maple grove is a high swing that Clay has put up for the kids. It's seat is a small tire, attached by 3 small chains that taper up to a single chain about 12 feet off the ground making a good sweep for the kids to play on. Me-Too investigates this contraption and steps through it, across the tire and with it under her belly, tries to swing. But all it does is lift one end and then the other of her off the ground. When she tries to quit her playing the "going end" is lifted up, making travel impossible. By the time I come along to rescue her she's had more than enough of this swinging business. She's been in that thing for about 24 hours and is mighty glad to get out.

Blaze

Blaze was a top notch horse we bought for Liberty when she started in 4H. Keith, my brother had dealt with Owen Johnson and his son David, buying horses, and had been treated fairly, so Judy, Victor, Liberty and I went to Moccasin, Arizona to see what he had for sale. David said they had two Morgans, half brothers, 4 and 3 years old. The 3 year old was a palomino and had been handled a little that summer. He sent his son, a 10 year old boy, up into a big pasture of old man brush to fetch back several head of horses.

Blaze was a deep yellow with a white mane and tail and a wide white blaze the length of his face. I really liked the looks of him and even though the asking price was $500 we told David we would take him. $500 was a lot of money for a horse at that time. They also had a pretty red roan filly that we paid $200 for that I figured would make Victor a good saddle horse. When we got home I rode Blaze two or three times then told Liberty he was hers to train as she liked. Over the next few years he proved to be one of the very best horses I'd ever seen. He was especially good in the rocks and rough-mountain country. I felt that Liberty was safe riding him. I knew he'd take good care of her. He had good substantial sized hard black feet that carried him well. I never saw him stumble or falter in his stride. The only time he ever fell was when Liberty ran him through a bog hole, and that was not his fault.

One time when we ran into a barbed wire gate on a dark night, he tried to jump it at the last instant. That time he went onto his chest and nose, then over onto his left shoulder, but his hind quarters were still up.

Liberty and Blaze were always out in the lead whenever we went on a long ride or pack trip. None of the boys I ever took with me, except Randy, could out run her (but Randy usually let Liberty be on point.) Blaze was a good swimmer too, and they swam across every body of water that was deep enough. Liberty and her friends would race up and down the Virgin River splashing water and having lots of fun and swimming through all the deep holes.

Still, he was a horse she could be proud of in 4-H shows and parades and she spent many hours polishing him until he would shine like gold. Also she liked to race him across the sand dunes. Up and down they flew as he carried her at a rapid rate over those choppy brush covered sand waves. Liberty, on Blaze, was a horseman's dream. Someday I hope she'll PAINT that picture

When Liberty was Rodeo Princess for the Dixie Roundup she rode Braze in all the parades and horse shows. They were a pretty sight to behold. He with his flashy gold color set off by a white blaze the full length of his face and a flowing white mane and tail, carried her as if he was proud to be her horse and a part of the gala show. She was decked out in cowgirl fashion with a big white hat and set him as if she'd been born astride a horse, which she had just about been. Her first pack trip onto Pine Valley Mountain was at 3 years of age.

But this story does not have a happy ending. Liberty came home from high school one afternoon and found that Blaze had been shot through the belly by a 30-30 slug. A foster kid from down under the hill at the Adam's place was having some target practice. He also killed a beautiful 3 year old paint gelding that belonged to Liberty and a pie-bald pony of Jack Pypers. Victor discovered them all when he prepared to irrigate the field where they were pastured.

The Brinkerhoff brothers, both veterinarians, operated on him there on the pasture grass. Many of the people of the neighborhood assisted with flood-lights, water and in what-ever way they could. About midnight they sewed him up, but told us it was not likely he would recover. I stayed with him the rest of the night and so did Liberty, Victor and Leon in shifts. He was wet with a cold sweat so I wrapped him in quilts and a horse blanket. He showed he was in great pain as he would stand up, then lay on his belly, then over onto his side, then back up onto his feet. He repeated this every few minutes until at 4AM he laid out flat on his side and breathed his last. My heart was broken and Liberty was never the same after that dreadful experience.

Wild Mule

Only a fool or a stranger will predict the weather and a wise man ought to prepare for any emergency, but we sometimes have to learn the hard way. Take for instance when Mark, Leon and I pulled the packs off the mules and Dugan in South Valley one clear beautiful warm summer day. I said to Leon: "Do you think we ought to put up the tent?" "Naw, it'd just be wasted effort." I had a pretty good tarp on my bedroll and Mark had a brand new bed tarp on his, but Leon didn't have any kind of water repellant cover on his sleeping bag. I had forgotten to bring a tarp along to throw over the saddles and pack gear and the thought entered my mind that the tent, if erected would provide shelter for our equipment and us, too, in the event of rain, but there wasn't a cloud in the sky, the air so warm and balmy it probably wouldn't rain for a month.

We hobbled our horses out on the good grass, then proceeded to fix supper. My bed was rolled out where the grass was soft, but water drainage good. Mark's bed also lay on a slope, but Leon put his in a flat level depression where he wouldn't be inclined to roll out of it during the night. After sitting around the fire for an hour or so shooting the breeze, we turned in. A beautiful clear star lite sky, not a hint of rain, didn't take long for me to konk out, but sometime in the night I felt water in my face and its patter on the tarp which I pulled up over my head, then groped around for my hat, boots, and clothes to pull them under too. I tried to feel around the edge of the bed to make sure the bottom tarp wasn't exposed to catch rain and run it under my blankets. Then I say: "Leon, how you doing?" "Not wet yet" came back his reply. I'd have invited him in bed with me but didn't think he'd like that. Well, there's nothing I can do for him. He's big enough to look after himself. The patter of rain lulls me off to sleep, but after awhile I subconsciously hear him muttering. I think: this ought to teach him a lesson. I'd told him a dozen times what kind of bedroll he ought to fix when camping out. It bothered me plenty to think of the alphoges with our grub in them setting out there, but I had thrown some saddle blankets over them. And I didn't like it a bit that my saddle was getting wet, but I hated worse the thought of getting out there in that wet and doing something about it, so I kept on sleeping. Later I heard Leon say: "My bed is sopping wet." Mark didn't say nothing, that new bed tarp was doing a good job for him. I stretched one leg down and my foot ran into cold soggy blanket, somewhere my tarp had been askew. By now I'm feeling the call of nature, then Leon says. "Everything's wet, how we gonna build a fire?" Raising my tarp a little I can see it's daylight. Leon's over there all dressed in wet clothes, holding an arm full of wet wood. Then begins the exercise of my wisdom, which he had witnessed before: get the axe and chop off a good chunk of log, then split it up to make kindling. Now comes the second part, if the rain is coming down hard, someone else has to gather those dry pieces quick and put them under a saddle blanket or piece of tarp before they get wet, too. It requires some effort to chop off a chunk of log, but if a guy is wet and cold he won't grumble too bad. So I pull on my clothes under the tarp and prepare to face the cold dreary wet day. My slicker is tied to the back of the saddle and it takes some doing to undo those wet saddle strings, but I get it on before my shirt is very wet.

By then the log is ready and the two of us have the fire going in a little while. Pretty soon it's burning big enough so we can pile on wet wood that will dry out and burn. With a good fire going even a wet drizzly morning brightens up considerably. The camp gear was all wet and the horses were standing out there humped up, shivering. They were used to that lower elevation and this high wet cold morning didn't feel so good. Leon brings his black mare over by the fire. She is shaking like she has the ague. As we cook breakfast on one side she stays in close on the other. You can tell that campfire feels mighty good to her. Not too long and I get Ol' Molly tied solid to a tree, putting wet pack blankets and saddle on her. She doesn't like it as I draw up on that wet cinch. When things are wet it's twice as hard to handle them. We throw everything in and on, wet as sop. and lash em down. Our rain slickers flap and crackle spooking the wild mustang mule, but we anchor her solid, then cinch on the pack saddle, a wet bed or two is flopped over the top and all lashed on. Red River is just past 3 years old and hasn't been ridden a lot. He stands there with wet blankets and saddle on a cold wet back. My boots are wet and never before has he been ridden with a flappy, noisy slicker. The seat of the saddle is sopping wet as I prepare to climb on. I think: if there is ever a time when a horse is going to buck it should be under these circumstances and now I'm least able to stay on. I say a little prayer asking that Red's heart will be softened, then on I get. Red just stands there, not moving a muscle. I straighten out that flappy, crinkly slicker, then press my legs against him and we all move out along the trail. Boy do I love that good little horse. Nobody got bucked off and the packs seemed to balance, it was absolutely amazing.

We figured to ride to Anderson Valley where Darce Prince had a log cabin and stay that night. He kept bedding stored in big 30 gal. cans to keep out the rats. Here we could sleep on bunks and let our stuff dry off some. By the time we got to Mill Flat the rain had quit and even Leon was drying out. Only 2 or 3 more miles to the cabin where we built a fire in the cook stove and a big fire out front. Saddle blankets, bedding and tarps are scattered over all the logs, tables, benches and even hanging along the cabin wall. That night we covered everything up with my bed tarp, but no need, next morning the sun came up in a clear sky.

Anderson Valley not only has that nice little cabin but the forest service fenced up a large portion of the meadow with a zig zag quakin asp pole fence to make the best pasture a horse ever chomped grass in, but we never used it because the feed was good on the outside. We just hobbled them so they wouldn't head up the back trail. That wild mule was put on a stake out rope again. She'd leave the country in a second if she got the chance. About noon a few big clouds floated over so we started to putting things back together. Most all the bedding and other gear was dry by then. Mark needs to go home and help buck hay in a couple of days so we figured to camp that night at the ranger station on north Browse Creek. Mark's old hack had worn a spot of hair off Silver's back so I had him ride Dugan and I put my saddle on Silver. It was easy on a horses back and never made a sore. We put Dugan's pack on Red River. It was the first time either of them had ever been packed and they both handle it like old veterans.

The trail heads south out of Anderson Valley bearing a little east across the steep mountainside at a tolerable grade, which is headwater drainage for Leap Creek. Then it meanders through a forest of long leaf pines that grow on a mountain bench for better than a mile. At the south end we water up at Syler Spring where the trail drops off to the east into the scrub oak elevation. It winds around through heavy brush for a ways then merges into an old road that crosses the necks of big foothill ridges, extending out from the mountainside. About here we jump a big buck that goes bounding over the ridge. Mark's got a rifle slung on his saddle and both those young fellers get buck fever. They want to go after him. I remind them that the old ranger cabin is only a couple miles distant and game wardens quite often camp there while they count deer berries. Being young and reckless they are willing to chance it so over the ridge they went.

With the 3 pack animals I continued along the old road as it wound back and forth on about a level keel toward the ranger cabin. After a bit I hear the heavy crack of a rifle, then silence. Well, sounds like they got him. About 1/2 mile farther on I see them down the draw below the road a ways, doing something, so figure they're gutting one out,

When I get down to the cabin I can see fresh pickup tracks. I step off Silver and tie the mules up to the front porch. Then, to my surprise, a whole herd of tame deer come out of the tall oak looking for a handout. I put the packs on the porch and my saddle too cause there's heavy water-laden clouds getting thick up above. The door to the cabin is locked but the porch will keep us dry unless the wind whips around a lot.

The fire is burning and some supper cooking when the poachers show up and they don't even bring any liver or heart, so we make out with fried taters and a can of corn, topped off with Brigham tea and honey on dutch oven lid toast. Not too bad. They promised to get up early and go fetch their meat so we could leave before some game warden showed up.

Despite the threatening sky no rain fell on the cabin. The fire was burning by the crack of dawn and I put the pack saddle on the wild mule shortly thereafter. I hung and lashed down 2 rawhide alphoges to put the sections of deer meat in and a heavy pack cover to go over the top. Leon was slow getting out of bed and fiddled around till it was sun up when they left. I put my saddle on Silver and the other 2 pack saddles on Molly mule and Red. I had finished packing Red and was working on Molly when I heard the sound of an engine down the road.

Presently a pickup truck with a game department emblem on the side pulls in. A big burly young feller gets out and swaggers over. He says "What you doing?", not a bit friendly or polite like. My first impulse is to say "none of you dam business," but I constrained myself and said "can't you see, I'm packin this mule." He says "Where you been?" real nosey like as if I was suppose to ask HIM what I could do. Again I exercised exceptional self control and answered. "Up on the mountain. Is there a law against it?" and I stopped my work and looked him in the eye. I don't like being pushed around by self important public servants and was about to tell him so when his eyes shifted away and he went walking over toward the road.

Mark's rifle was leaning against the porch and the scabbard tied to my saddle. He didn't say anything about that. Shortly he came back. He says: "Anybody with you?" "Yep, a couple guys." "Where, they at?" "They went up that way AFTER a wild mule." I indicated the direction they had gone. I knew he had seen their tracks. I just misplaced one word AFTER instead of BEFORE. He walked off through the brush again. I finished packing up, got on Silver and headed down the road and off the switch backs to the west fork of Browse, then took the trail up the creek and climbed over the big hump and down into Wet Sandy. As I rode along I wondered how those reckless young deer slayers were getting along. Before they left that morning we had talked about what they should do in the event that a game warden confronted them. That little mule was snaky and especially so of strangers. We agreed that if a warden insisted on looking in her pack to tell him to go ahead and while he was trying to get up to her just "accidentally" let her pull away. She'd be gone in a flash and it'd be his fault for causing you to lose your mule. They were well mounted and they'd be hard to apprehend, being of a reckless and impetuous nature. I didn't think for a minute that the nerd who drove up that morning could do it.

Just to wonder about how this episode would turn out gave zest to my thoughts sort of like riding the owl hoot trail even though I'd advised against what they did. Before I got to the old deer camp I put Mark's rifle in the scabbard and wrapped it in a piece of canvas and hid it in a big bush so the wardens could not confiscate it by warrant. I thought maybe Mark and Leon would catch up with us for we traveled at Silver's natural walk, me not urging him on any. We crossed through the underpass, veering west out into the sand to bypass Toquerville and before sundown forded the Virgin up to LaVerkin and home.

About midnight Leon woke me up. He had fast-talked Mark into riding the horses on home from where Mark's pickup was parked near the Freeway. Leon drove the truck on down. He said when they had got to where the buck was hung up, the wild mule had spooked and pulled away from him disappearing into the tall brush. They hunted it for awhile, then Leon came down to get me. When he saw the game warden's truck through the trees he whirled his horse and made quick time to tell Mark. So they hid the buck then hunted for the mule till late afternoon. When they rode by the cabin the warden had long since left so he'd be home in time for supper.

Mark got to our place about 3 AM and got into his truck and headed for Panaca so to be there at day break to help his dad haul hay. He was a faithful dedicated young man and had just recently returned from serving an honorable mission. He had been astride Dugan all day and most of the night and still must drive 100 miles then haul hay all day. He should have been able to sleep well the next night.

Leon and I hunted for that wild mule a couple days, but the country was so vast, the scrub oak so thick over rough terrain, that we gave up on finding her. When she got away the pack saddle and alphoges were on her back with Mark's new $70.00 slicker in one side. Also, ropes and canvas pack covers to wrap up the meat and to cover over the top, a halter on her head and heavy nylon lead rope dragging.

Next spring, about 9 months later, Gary McKell, a friend of mine who is a game warden, told me he had seen a mule near a pond over on the Black Ridge Country 5 or 6 miles from where Wild Mule escaped, so Leon and I loaded Red and Blue Bell mare and traveled to the pond. We were in luck for down the flat about 114 mile we could see Wild Mule. Around the pond was a fence with 4 strands of barbed wire, but not stretched very tight. A few cedar trees were also scattered here and there inside the fenced enclosure. We tied Blue Mare in plain sight to one of the cedar trees. Wild Mule had perked up her ears and was watching what was going on. We move the truck and horse trailer out of sight. Then I got on Red, and keeping out of sight, circled around the other side and carefully pushed her toward the pond and Blue Mare.

She went in the gate all right, but that fence with the sagging barbed wire had me worried. I knew that if I tried to rope her she would go over the top. Luckily there was a cedar tree growing on the inside of the enclosure about 3 or 4 feet from the fence line. Here we arranged the loop of a lariat so her head would go through when we drove her between the tree and the fence, but as she went by she ducked her head underneath. I then left that rope in place and hung a tie rope with the bottom of the loop lower down. But again she ducked under. I did not dare make the loops very big for fear she would just go on through them. The third time the bottom loop was about 12" from the ground with the other loops still in place and again she ducked under. So the fourth loop lay on the ground with the top of the loop up about 2 feet high. That place looked like a network of ropes and it is a wonder that she would even try to go by, but I guess she thought she had it all figured out. On the fourth try she put her head right in that small loop on the bottom and it pulled up neatly on her neck not far behind the head. She was now a captured mule again. The halter was still on her head with about 8" of frazzled tie rope tied to it. The pack saddle with the alphoges was gone. She was fat and in good shape. Rod was surprised to get his mustang mule back and soon sold her to the Havasupai Indians out at the Grand Canyon Rim. They used her to pack Pepsi Cola down to the bottom of the canyon where they sold it to them paleface dudes for $2.00 a can.