Wild Fire
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2018 by JRyter

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 EspañaNew 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.

Shivering from the cold, trembling in fear, the young colt stood under sagging, snow covered branches between two pine trees. His were eyes fixed on the entrance of the cavern from which he had just fled, fearing for his life.

He wanted his mother.

Instead, there stood a large Gray Wolf at the entrance – the alpha male – the leader of the pack. The wolf stood looking directly at the frightened newborn. As the wolf took his first step toward the foal, he was suddenly catapulted from the entrance, flying over twenty feet as the younger mare kicked with both hind legs. The wolf slammed against a jagged boulder before plowing through the snow. He lay buried in a snowdrift, whimpering and dying with broken legs, and a broken back.

As the young, blaze-face, red colt stood looking toward the entrance in fear, he saw the young mare stumble from the cavern. He just knew this was his mother as she looked across the deep snow at him.

Slowly, on weak, torn and bloody legs, she walked toward him, leaving a dark red trail of blood in the knee-deep snow.

As the mare nudged him, forcing him ahead of her, she directed the young orphan toward the warm valley where she knew there would be safety in numbers. Again and again, the newborn foal attempted to turn back in an effort find his mother. The young mare persisted and eventually they were at a safe place where she would let him nurse.

The warmth and nourishment of his adopted-mother’s milk began to wash away the hurt and fear from the orphaned foal as he filled his belly. With his belly full, she turned to lick away the blood from his neck and mane where the wolves had ripped into him before he escaped. Then, once again she urged and pointed him south, in search of the herd.

Keeping away from the deeper snowdrifts, the mare made her way through the trees, along a well worn trail. Full of energy gained by the first nursing from his adopted-mother, the young – flame colored, red colt could no longer contain himself. He began to run and romp ahead of, and alongside the mare. Keeping an ever watchful eye out for danger, she let the little boy gain strength and power in his legs by running, turning, playing and kicking up his heels. This was one of nature’s first lessons in survival, even during the early hours of a newborn’s life in the wild.

They came to a stream with cold, rippling water and the mare stepped out into the icy water to ease the pain in her lower legs. As she lowered her head to drink, the young foal beside her mimicked her actions.

She was teaching and he was learning. If he is to survive, he will need everything his adopted-mother can teach him. Even then, only Mother Nature will decide if he will live to reach maturity.

Before nightfall, the mare and her adopted foal came to the warm valley where they mingled with the herd. They were safe now, and she began feeding on green grass along the water’s edge of streams and around the small lakes. What snow had fallen here, had quickly melted with the warmer temperatures in the valley. The streams and small lakes had no ice. Steam rose from many of the smaller springs and pools where the thermal waters bubbled and boiled – at times gushing water and steam high above the surface.

The mares of the herd looked up to see the newcomers among them. Looking around with heads raised, ears cocked – they didn’t see the older mare or her colt. Whether they knew what had happened or not, they accepted that one of their own was no longer with them. That – is the way it is – the way nature designed it. Only the strongest survive, and not all of those will live to carry on the herd.

As the last light of day lingered over the valley, the mares grazed, ever watchful while their foals ran and played inside the protective circle.

During the following weeks, the mares remained in the warm valley. The grass was greening-up, and plentiful as the warm sun brought a feel of springtime to Wyoming.

The warm air was soon filled with the scent of mares in heat. Known as foal-heat – the first estrus period for a mare after foaling. They were ready to be bred, even though their nursing foals were were less than a month old.

The scent of one mare in foal-heat will attract stallions from miles around. This valley was filled with mares in heat and the stallions came in numbers, to do what nature called them here for.

The young foals were at a loss as the mating continued for days. They were pushed aside as their mothers were paired and bred, often multiple times in a day.

Two months later, the mares began to push their foals away for good as they tried to nurse. Many of the mares refused to let them nurse at all. Some allowing them to nurse once a day as the young ones learned to eat grass and drink water fulltime for nourishment.

Now at three months and no longer nursing, the foals were still under the watchful eyes of their mothers...

As the grazing took its toll on the grass of the warm fertile valley, the herd moved south along Grayling Creek, to other grassy areas with available water.

Entering a large canyon covered with grass, split by a stream from end to end, the herd stopped to lazily graze and make this their home for the spring and summer months.

Their first night in this summer home would be a harrowing experience.

For safety, the mares gathered away from the steep canyon walls, out in the open moonlight. Their foals were more frisky than ever, yet they remained near their mothers, who were guarding against marauding predators of the night.

Though they did the best they could for their young, their communal guard would not be enough for all. Late in the night, the foals were lying on the ground. The mares had relaxed their watchful eye, unknowing – as death stalked the darkness.

Two female Cougars caught the scent of prey, drifting on the wind. They crept silently along the rim of the canyon...

... Then made their way to a wide crevice in the canyon wall, nearest where the horses were bedded down for the night. Without a sound, the big cats leaped the last ten feet to the ground. With the speed of an arrow, they raced into the herd. Each of them had a foal on the ground, ripping into its throat to render it helpless.

The remainder of the foals were up and running at the frightening sounds of struggling foals nearby. The mares rushed into the attack just as one cat dragged a foal off into the dark shadows near the canyon wall.

The other cat was attempting to drag a foal, its strong jaws gripping the neck of the large colt. This foal was much too heavy for the cat to move. From out of the dark shadows, a mare charged through the moonlight, and with her hooves, pounded the big cat into the dirt and sand of the canyon floor.

The young colt was on his feet as soon as the cat loosened its grip of death from his neck. Running wildly into the night, blinded by fear, he ran out into the stream. Staggering and tripping, he fell into the warm water. The deep cuts on his neck and mane burned like fire as he stumbled and rolled in the water, to stand again.

Daylight came to the canyon, and there he stood – his neck bloody and his short fire-red mane torn and ragged as it lay along the side of his neck. His adopted mother was the first to reach him.

As he stood trembling, she began to lick his wounds, cleaning him the best she could.

By the end of summer, his wounds had completely healed. He was now a part of the herd, and because of his size – he was the leader of the bachelor gang – a term wranglers give the young colts of the wild herds. They were not old enough to compete for breeding rights of the mares, but they were learning the traits of being young stallions. They fought in fake battles for supremacy. They raced and ran for miles during the day, away from the herd, but always in sight. At night, they moved closer to the fillies and mares, for their safety and the safety of the herd.


Bright copper and gold leaves of fall adorned the trees in the river valleys and across the hillsides, when the first horse traders came for a fall roundup of wild mares and fillies. They were always on the lookout for strong yearling colts to geld and break to the saddle. They have to take them young, otherwise the spirit of the wild horse may never be tamed.

At the first sight of men on horseback, the lead mare sounded the alarm.

They were off and running, heading for the tree-covered hillsides.

At the back of the herd, a large colt – a young red giant he was – ran back and forth, nipping at the haunches of the slower mares and fillies, urging them to run faster. Running behind the herd, bucking and kicking, throwing his head and his thick red mane wildly as he ran.

When the riders closed in, the young colt charged directly at them, then ran away, as if daring them to try and catch him.

“Look at that damn long-legged, overgrown colt run!” one of the men yelled as he pointed.

“We need to take him back with us, after we’ve gathered as many of the younger mares and fillies we can,” another man agreed, just as the tall red colt ran past them.

“That’s about the reddest damn mane I’ve ever seen on young horse.”

“Looks like he could’ve been born in a wild fire, as bright red as he is all over.”

“If you ask me, he looks like an out of control wild fire when he runs! Just look at the sun reflecting off his red coat!”

“Let’s go catch Ol’ Wild Fire... The boss will want this big red colt for his own, if we can get a rope on him...”

They failed to get a rope on Wild Fire this day – or this fall, with Wild Fire heading the wranglers off each time they came close to the herd.

Running with the lead mare at times, he led them up through the hills and down through the valleys ... Up and down the steep mountain slopes, he took them until the wranglers’ horses were worn out.

The wranglers pulled up near a stream and made camp for the night. They fed their horses and rubbed them down with wet grass, trying to ready them for another, day-long chase tomorrow.

They had been here many times to round up wild horses. They knew these hills and valleys – the slopes and treacherously narrow canyon trails, as well as the wild horses and antelope knew this country ... Or so they thought.

The next morning, the wranglers rolled out before the break of day. They’d planned to split up, and try driving the herd into a box canyon.

Everything went as planned, and by midday, they had the herd racing toward the canyon. With riders on either side and to the rear – the wild horses had no place to go, but right up the middle of the canyon where it narrowed to only a few feet.

“We got ‘em now!” One of the men yelled in his excitement.

“Get some brush and ropes tied across this opening. We’ll let ‘em settle down after that run, then we’ll cull out the ones we don’t want,” the foreman yelled.

They had their barricade in place, ready to begin roping horses, when they looked back to see the red colt they called Wild Fire. He was leading the mares up the steep, rocky slope of the canyon wall behind them.

“There ain’t no way in hell he can lead that herd up that slope, through those loose rocks. Get your ropes and let’s catch all of them we can. We’ll get that Red Devil, and the others too when the rocks start sliding and they have to turn back down into the canyon!”

... The wranglers roped an older mare and one small filly – the only horses which didn’t make it to the top of the canyon wall.

“Just look at that Red Devil up there ... As young as he is, he’s letting us know that he’ll never allow this herd to be taken!” the foreman told them, pointing to the rim of the canyon.

Wild Fire stood on his hind legs, pawing at the sky with his front hooves. The sun casting a fire-red glow over his head, body, and shimmering – blazing red mane – as the last of the mares and fillies cleared the top of the steep slope behind him.

“Boss ain’t gonna like this none!” One of the wranglers grumbled as he looked at the foreman.

“Then he can come with us next time we chase this herd. Let’s go back and break camp. We’ll take these two horses over that south ridge with us. We’ll have better luck anyway, with that smaller herd we spotted last week.”

Edited by: Amigo

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