The Runaway

The Runaway

         I was raised on a farm north of Cozad, Nebraska, a small town in the Platte River valley. We were a family of five, two brothers and myself. I was always a skinny kid, wiry from the grind of farm work. My brothers were five and nine years younger and our nearest neighbor with kids about my age lived several miles away. Dad could understand this and wanted to help in some way. He often went to Saturday auctions in Gothenburg looking for livestock bargains. On one Saturday he came home from the auction and asked me what color horse I would like if I were to get one. Thinking of my favorite horses in cowboy movies I answered, “All black or all white.” He didn’t show the disappointment that I know he felt. Later that day a small, pinto mare with a bright white coat and copper colored patches was delivered. I was smitten. She had been trained to be a cutting horse. The previous owner told Dad that he sold her because she was not big enough to carry a fully-grown man all day, riding herd. I named her Spot.

         She was quick as a cat and had spunk to burn. When she wanted her way she was known to rear. I recall her rearing and pounding her hooves on the barn door, with me aboard. We eventually outfitted her with a martingale to limit her rearing. Once Spot and I got a feel for each other’s habits it was like we were one entity, moving in unison. If I asked her to, she could be at full speed in a couple of strides. I rode her in Cozad’s Hay Day’s parades. At times like that I had to keep a tight hold on the reins. She would walk with a prancing step, turned partly sideways, champing at the bit. There was a dirt parking lot by the high school’s football field in Cozad; it served as a staging area for the horses in the parade. I once challenged someone on a much larger horse to race across that parking lot. He was eager to answer the challenge, but his confidence was short lived; Spot was across the parking lot before his horse was up to a full gallop. I could see that she was not about to play second fiddle to another horse. One day she would reinforce that belief, at my expense.

         One summer my cousin Stuart, nicknamed Stu, came for a visit. We picked him up at the train depot and took him out to the farm. Stu was a handsome, confident boy, almost cocky, with dark wavy hair and an air of superiority about him. He was slim like me and about the same height, though he was a year younger. He lived in the Los Angeles, California area; the home of movie stars, customized cars and trend setting fashions. Stu blended in pretty well as a farmhand that summer though he didn’t look the part. Staying true to his California fashion sense he removed the belt loops from his jeans and wore the jeans low on the hips, leaving a bit of his underwear showing. The pant legs were so short that his socks would show a few inches above his suede shoes. He insisted that his mother and my mother not wash the jeans, and they complied because wearing them unwashed was a teen trend in California.

         By the time Stu arrived Dad had purchased another horse at the auction. This one was a tall, white horse that we called Silver. I rode Silver once, but found that she didn’t respond to the reins and my weight shifting commands as well as Spot. So, Silver was left in our pasture with Spot and our other livestock. She took a place in the pecking order of the group, behind Spot.

         Stu hadn’t been with us long before we rounded up Spot and Silver for a horseback ride. I was on Spot and he was on Silver when we headed down our lane toward the main road. I had no idea what was in store for me. Basically, Spot had only two usable gaits, a walk and a gallop. She couldn’t canter and her trot was a jaw rattling stiff-legged run. So, when I rode her out on the country roads I would walk her the distance between two power poles and gallop twice that length. Power poles along the road were my standard of measurement. I really never tested her stamina by riding her hard, but I now know that she had plenty of stamina and a will to dominate like no other horse I have known.

         My normal solo ride took me to the Landercasper’s farmhouse, about a mile from ours. Minnie Landercasper, about a dozen years my mother’s senior and the matriarch of the Landercasper family, always welcomed my unannounced visits. She made me feel as though she had been waiting all day to see me. She was good old country folk; not a pretentious bone in her body. Sometimes she would bring her camera outside and take a picture of me on Spot. She was a great cook and always had a dessert to serve me. She had one dessert she called Calf Slobbers; I think it was a type of bread pudding. Everyone who ate it loved it and often asked for the recipe. But she gave nobody the recipe, not even her adult daughter, Eva. The ride to the Landercasper’s took me to an intersection half a mile west, where I would turn south and ride a quarter of a mile to a long lane that led to their house. The lane ended at a driveway that circled the house, ending back at the lane. There was a grove of trees growing on the dome of a fruit-cellar just beyond the entrance to the circle. The house was partially obscured by the trees when viewing it from the lane.

         One day Stu and I made the trip to the Landercasper’s… in a hurry.

         We left home on Silver and Spot, for a casual horseback ride. Not long after we left our lane and started down the main road, heading west, we began to gallop the horses. It was obvious that Spot wanted to keep her nose out front, but Stu urged Silver to pick up the pace, and a race started. After we passed a couple of power poles I tried to rein in Spot, to no avail. I hollered back over my shoulder, “STOP STU… STOP,” but he was enjoying the race. He was pressing Silver to run faster. As she would close in on Spot I could feel Spot’s stride lengthen as she reached for more speed. She stayed in front. The horses were not used to running all-out like that and I thought, they are going to die. I hollered back to Stu again, “STOP.” All I heard in return were the sounds of hooves pounding the roadway. Silver may have been out of control also.

         We were coming to the intersection where I usually turned south when riding alone. I didn’t want to make that turn at breakneck speed. But I had no control over Spot. She had a destination in mind and was determined to be the first one there. I imagined, the horses will fall and we will become a tangle of flesh and bones… it will be carnage.

         Spot managed to make it around that corner at full speed; her hooves throwing dirt behind her like a racecar on a short, dirt track. I knew where she was headed and I wondered how she would make the next turn onto Landercasper’s narrow lane. I didn’t have to worry long; she took a shortcut. She left the road, running down through a bordering ditch, across a field of alfalfa and onto the lane. At this stage I had no idea what was taking place behind me; I was just trying to stay in the saddle. I thought that we were headed for the circle driveway at the end of the lane, but she bypassed it, maintaining a direct path through the trees on the fruit cellar. I didn’t make it through.

         I awoke hearing voices. I was on the ground and there was a crowd of people standing around me. Needless to say, I was hurting like never before. In the aftermath it looked like I had tree bark tattoos on my one side of my face and one leg. As it turned out Stu and the horses were OK, having stopped at a fence not far from where I parted company with Spot. I don’t remember much about the rest of the day; I had a concussion but no broken bones.

         Back in the pasture, Spot retained her #1 position in the pecking order.

         Stu and I never rode together after the runaway, but after he left for California I began riding to the Landercasper’s again. Minnie was always glad to see me and serve me one of her special desserts.