White Mountains

     The days were hard on the old cowboy, first came the building of a rough brush fence across the opening of a small box canyon, then a buck-out ring, and finally the survey for the wild horse trails. They were here, the funding for his dream was within his grasp, and it ran in the thundering hoof of the wild bunch...

     He started slowly getting the herd used to the sight of a man on horseback without panic, and then he would ride in ever closer. His method was to direct the herd without the big gray stallion even becoming aware that his was not the only control. The cowboy was directing the flow of the herd just by his presence. Sweaty hot riding in the damn high desert sun, always a mouth and eye full of the fine white dust this range was named for...

     Only one thing kept the cowboy going day after grueling day, her face always present in a vision on the not too distant rise of the mountains, the constant love for her burned deep into his soul. Finally after three hard weeks he was ready, he had hazed the herd ever closer to the box canyon. When they were within three miles he began to increase their pace, finally breaking them in a blind panic as they approached the entrance to his trap...

     From that large thundering herd he had managed to trap three mares with yearling foals he would sell over in El Paso, and two good tall mares for his string. Rough broke the mares and yearlings would sell for forty hard dollars a pair. That would be enough for his tent, grub and supplies. And with his old roan mare and the two new girls he would be ready for the ride north...

     The quest was no longer a dream; he was now following his vision to its end. With no more than his dog and the mare to talk to he would follow back over the trail until he held his love in his arms once more...

~ © 2003-2010 David L Griffith ~

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