Chapter 1

In 1968, Michael Martin Murphey wrote his signature ballad about a horse he called – Wildfire – Though I’ve always loved the lyrics and haunting melody of his song, in no way does my tale concern the words of his ballad, or the horse he called – Wildfire –

By the year 1540, Spanish Conquistadors had already laid claim to Nueva España – New Spain – which would later become – Mexico (Meshtleeko – The Original Pronunciation).

They came up out of Mexico, onto the Llano Estacado (The Staked Plains) and for years remained close to Mexico, before eventually scattering to explore the Southwestern Plains of the North American Continent.

With the arrival of the Spaniards – the horse was introduced to North America.

Though the Spaniards enslaved entire Indian Tribes of the Southwest, they taught them to tame, care for, and ride their horses.

Around the year 1680, the Pueblo and Hopi Indians of the Southwest joined forces to revolt against the conquering Spaniards, driving them back into Mexico. As the Spaniards were forced to withdraw unexpectedly, they left behind – hundreds of horses.

Over the years, the Pueblo – having been enslaved by the Spaniards to help with the breeding, grooming, and taming of their horses – began trading the offspring of those horses to other tribes.

The Kiowa, was one of the first tribes – and they traded whatever they possessed – whatever it took – to gain horses.

Then came the Comanche and the Shoshone.

From the Southwest, the horse was traded all the way into southern Canada, and eventually to all the North American Plains Indians.

Over the next two, to three decades, horses were eventually spread across the entire continent, and to all the Plains Indian Tribes. The arrival of the horse – forever changed life on this continent.

Prior to the horse, Indians on The Great Plains kept dogs as beasts of burden. Carrying loads on their backs, pulling travois’ loaded with hides, food and other camp supplies – dogs were a major part of their culture. The migrating Plains Indians, on their nomadic treks, followed the herds of North American Bison – Buffalo – they would come to be known. The Buffalo wasn’t just an animal killed for food and shelter – Buffalo was a way of life for the Plains Indians, from Mexico into Canada. No part of a Buffalo carcass went to waste.

With the arrival of the horse, Indians gained an advantage over the Buffalo. They would ride slowly up beside a grazing herd and with their spears, and bows and arrows, they’d kill or wound as many as they could before the herd would stampede. Once the herd stampeded, the wounded were chased by Indians on horseback.

During these hunts, they killed only what they needed – the Buffalo was always there for them ... Never – did they needlessly kill an animal.

Long before White Men came to the northern plains, Indians culled the wild horse herds, making sure the fittest mares were bred by the finest stallions.

They had their own roundups each year, taking only the best young mounts the wild herds offered. These young horses were kept with the tribe as they tamed them and gentled them to ride. Among the weaker/smaller horses of the wild herd, many were killed for food. The Indians learned to geld a young colt, to keep it from breeding if it wasn’t chosen to be a breeding stallion early in its life. The geldings were used as beasts of burden, quickly replacing dogs.

Over the years, American Indians tried new ways to tame and train horses, rather than breaking them.

Indians were known to take a horse to a bog or a muddy creek, or even into deep water, to wear it down until it accepted a rider on its back. As more and more Indian Tribes gained horses, more and more ways were learned to tame them.

The gentler methods were learned by the bucks of the tribes. They were often given the task of tending the herds. Therefore, they learned to gentle a horse by offering food. Working with horses as early as newborn, the horses were tamed and gentled by the time they were old enough to ride...

Shoshone River Valley

Wyoming

March 20, 1839

Grass grows tall, green and plentiful along the Shoshone River in Wyoming. Most of the mares in this large herd are in season. The wild stallions were cutting the herd ... each of them trying to separate ten to fifteen mares from the main herd, to form his band. The older stallions were dominant and the younger horses of the herd would band the remaining mares which had been culled from the herd.

On this day, there came a new stallion charging down the slope of Wild Horse Mountain. Shod with heavy shoes which caused him to step high through his gait, the young Kentucky Saddler trotted alongside the herd, his tail raised, strutting as if he were a Tom Turkey. This majestic, blaze face, fire colored, red horse stood four hands above any wild stallion roaming the Shoshone River Basin.

Wasting no time, the great stallion cut fourteen of the finest young mares from the herd, taking three from another stallion in his effort.

The challenge had been made, and accepted. The battle for supremacy was on display. The other horse came at him, tail raised, head tossing side to side as he reared and trampled the ground in front of the intruder. The battle for dominance took only minutes as the tall red rogue reared to plant a shod hoof to the side of the younger stallion’s head. That one blow staggered the smaller stallion, and gave notice to the other challengers, that a new stallion was taking over, introducing his blood into this herd.

There were older mares in the herd, and they too were in season. One such mare in particular had failed to conceive the previous spring – for the first time since she threw her first foal twenty-two years ago. She was lost and devastated for a full year when the other mares began throwing and nursing foals. This spring, the Call of Nature urged her to be bred by a stronger stallion, one which would plant his seed and give her one more colt. She was showing her age – her years were numbered – her better days as a mother behind her.

As the young, flame colored rogue moved his chosen band across the river, away from the main herd – the older mare was in the midst of his younger mares. When the mating began, she made sure she was nearest the young red giant. Later she made her way back around to take his seed a second time.

During the spring and summer months, there was no doubt she was with foal. She ate and drank plentifully, assuring her foal would be born healthy.

At summer’s end, fall came fast upon the land. As the autumn leaves fell – the green grass in the higher valleys faded to brown. Winter winds blew across the land cold and hard, and the animals put on their cold-weather coats much earlier this year.

In late March, the smell of spring was in the air when a Higher Being, unknown to man – The Weather Forecaster of Nature – sent a silent message to the herd, alerting them of a strong, late winter storm moving across the Montana Rockies, heading toward Northwest Wyoming and down across the western plains.

Heeding the unspoken warning, the herd began their trek to the southeast, and warmer valleys.

Fan Creek

Montana – Wyoming Border

March 28, 1840

The late winter blizzard was storming its way across the land, with twenty inches of blowing snow on the ground and visibility nearing zero.

The aging mare of the herd plodded slowly, as she trailed the others. The herd had been on the move for days, traveling eastward out of Southwestern Montana, headed for a warm valley in Wyoming. They have always ended winter in that valley, as they gathered to foal. The waters are warmer in the valley and sparse clumps of new grass grew near the waterlines of creeks and small lakes, even in late winter.

The Old Lady of the herd was hardly able to stay with the others. She could barely see the ghostly shapes of the mares ahead of her. The blowing snow was nearing whiteout, though the full force of winter storm had yet to overtake them. This would be a hard, cold ending to winter and an even harsher coming of spring.

The farther she lagged behind, the slower she moved. Then suddenly – from out of the blinding snow – there was a younger mare beside her. This was her tenth daughter, her twentieth offspring. She too was swollen. She too, was within a day of foaling.

The herd had moved on, now separated by the blinding snow from the two laggard mothers-to-be. Still, the young mare trudged alongside her aging mother.

They came to a familiar wall of boulders, and as they passed the first of three giant rocks, the younger mare turned, forcing the older mare into a narrow opening between two massive stones. The stable-size cove was shielded from the blizzard by a rock overhang. This was as close to a shelter as they would find on this cold, late winter night.

Water trickled from a crack in the rock wall, running down the side of the boulder before freezing. Both mares lapped at the water, then stood side by side, head-to-tail for warmth, during the early hours of darkness.

As the blizzard raged across the plains, covering the mountains – blanketing the passes and valleys alike – the older mare knelt, then lay gently on her side in the cold dry sand. She stretched out, legs extended, neck straight with her head raised slightly off the ground. Her daughter lay on the ground behind her – they were back to back as they prepared for the birthing of their foals.

The main herd had now reached the warm valley, where for years they’d come each spring to foal. Now, they were missing two mares.

Since daybreak – unknown to the herd – a pack of wolves had begun patiently trailing the herd from a distance. Making their way along the trail of deep, but well trodden snow, the pack of wolves were anxiously waiting for the herd of mares to bed down, and foaling to begin.

They too, can sense the coming of foaling season for the wild mares.

With morning, came clearing skies and colder temperatures. Strong winds swept down the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, bringing a deeper chill to the air and to the animals which make this their homeland.

Inside the cavern, enclosed safely from the blizzard, the two mares had delivered their foals in the early hours of morning. The younger mare stood and turned to greet her small, gangling newborn. As she began to lick and clean his coat, the older mare staggered to stand on weak legs, then turned to greet her newborn.

Within minutes, the two foals were nursing their first meal from their mothers.

Suddenly... a strong rancid scent of danger filled the cold air around them. The mares turned to nudge their newborn against the back of the massive rock-walled enclosure. From atop the boulders, there came a deep, throaty – threatening growl. At the same instant, the entrance-way was crowded with four large Gray Wolves, each weighing ninety pounds or more.

Not waiting for an attack, the younger mare charged the four wolves at the entrance. One of them was down with the first thrust of a fore-hoof. Two wolves charged past her into the enclosure, as another leaped upward for her throat.

Rearing, she threw the wolf off her bloody throat and trampled it into the sand and gravel.

Behind her, a life and death battle was taking place as the older mare fought the wolves which had come between her and the two foals. From above, two wolves leaped into the bloody, killing frenzy. One landed atop of the older mare, the other attacked the younger mare’s newborn as the older mare began to kick and buck.

Though the two mares fought for their lives and the lives of their foals, it was soon apparent that not all would survive. They were badly outnumbered and the odds were against them. The newborn colt of the younger mare was on the ground. Two wolves were already tearing at his throat when the young mare turned and killed one with a deadly kick from both hind legs.

The tall, gangly, frightened newborn colt of the older mare dashed on wobbly legs toward the opening. He stopped suddenly – the opening was blocked – snow was up to his neck. Then, from behind him, his aging mother lowered her bloody head and suddenly thrust him forward through the opening, out into the deep snowdrift.

She gave up her life in an effort to save her foal.

Alone in the frozen wilderness for the first time, he was standing chest deep in a snowdrift. Fearing for his life, frightened by the sounds of the bloody battle behind him – the will to survive in the wild overcame all else as he leaped and jumped through the deep snow, on spindly, wobbly legs – toward a treeline.