The Call Of His Ancestors

Southland Times, Issue 22345, 9 June 1934, Page 18

The Call Of His Ancestors

(Prize Senior Section.) The air was cool, yet it held just a suspicion of frost in its crackling clearness. All was silence with now and again a murmuring sigh as a faint ripple of wind stirred the grass ever so softly. And then, as if to herald the first icy streak of daylight, which peeped over the rugged mountains, a call rang out, sharp and clear, which pierced the air like a knife, a challenging call, yet full of a mother’s love, tender yet triumphant, while deep in its sincerity there lay a secret—a secret that was soon to be shared with the sleepily stirring world. Then, as if in answer to the call, there was a movement among the long grass, dripping with sparkling dewdropa, and with ah uncertainty like a child learning to walk, it rose on its long wobbly legs, shaking and shivering, a strange spectacle among the fleeing shadows. Then again, without a murmur, it disappeared from sight and sank listlessly into the long grass. Time wore on. The night-owls hooted eerily in the half light, and the moon, cold and round, slipped lower and lower. Over to the east a warm glow was spread, which deepened and widened into a glowing furnace, while here and there a prairie bird burst into a song of morning rapture. Again the call rang out, to be echoed and re-echoed in the wooded slopes of the Rockies, and again the grass shook and trembled, and this time a foal (for that’s what it was), a beautiful coalblack, rose unsteadily to his feet, quivering with expectation, and hobbled to his mother. Gradually he found the use of his legs and as the sun grew warmer he was able to fumble about, and watch his mother nibbling the sweet prairie grass.

Every day saw him grow stronger and more beautiful, with a hint of Arab from his arched neck to his flying feet. With the guidance of a mountain-bred mother, he was kept hidden from man and beast for the first few months of his life. He grew up strong of limb and restless of spirit, with a wildness which hated to be curbed.

At one year old he was out of his mother’s control, and longing for a gambol with the other horses on the ranch. But that wild restless spirit was to be his undoing, for in venturing further afield than usual, he was sighted by the owner of the ranch, who immediately recognized in him that king of horses he had always longed to own. From then it was only a matter of days till he was secure in a home paddock. Three years old found him even more beautiful than he had given promise of as a foal, and many a man had offered his master all that he owned to possess the colt. When he was four years old his owner undertook to break him in, this wild coal-black colt, ever restless, ever with his head in the air. This was a difficult task as he soon found out. The first day saw a terrible battle between the horse-trainer and the tricky colt. The man, however, was skilful and knew how to use his power and before many days the colt was so far mastered that a good horseman could ride him. Although apparently subdued, there was still a wild streak in his nature and every now and then he would try and fling off his bonds in that longing for that old life in the mountains, his natural home. Finding after a year or two that he could never get free by kicking and prancing, he gave up all hope of ever escaping. One day a storm swept the prairies and the firs high upon the Rockies moaned and sighed under their weight of snow. Now and again a wild beast’s scream rent the air and a mocking answer was flung back from the depths of the valleys, while a lone eagle circled and dived into some deep unknown canyon. Down at the wheat ranch the black colt flung back his head, and his heart beat fast within him as he drank in this scene. Why was it that all nature should be so free while he should be cooped and conquered? It was the day of the great mustering of cattle on the ranch and the master was up before dawn to get a good start. Each of the horsemen was given a different direction to muster in. The master reserved for himself the difficult mountainside, for he knew how trusty and sure-footed the black colt now was. It had been a long, hard day among the wild cattle, such as both man and horse loved, when without warning, the ground under the horse seemed to be slipping away. By an effort that only a mountain-trained horse is capable of, he kept his feet, and saved his master. When the rolling stones and moving earth quietened, the master found that his horse had been seriously hurt in a front foot. It was a slow and painful journey back to the homestead, and for months the master treated and worked with the injured foot, only to realize that it was incurable. So the black colt was turned away to a place on the outskirts of the ranch where he was to spend the rest of his life in ease. Within sgiht of the rocky freedom that his soul had always longed for but still not able to attain, because l of the well-kept fences of the ranch. With the winter came one of those prowling half-Indian trappers, who having sighted this beautiful lame horse, was determined to possess him. Now this hunter was a cruel man and

all his horses were so ill-treated and bullied that they trembled at sight of him. The colt' was used as a packhorse, but still he was as lame as ever.

One day the trapper was returning to camp with the day’s skins when,, passing over some treacherous ground, two of the pack-horses sank girth-deep in a bog. The colt, seeing his chance for escape, made a bold bid for freedom. He wheeled in a, moment and fear lending strength to his sore toot, he turned from a listless limping creature to a resemblance of the fiery, beautiful animal he once had been. He raced like the wind through the cutting and up the hill, only to be met there by the angry trapper, who had seen his game and was trying to ut him off from the mountain track. With nostrils dilating, his head erect and mane and tail streaming in the wind, the now terrified horse wheeled and made straight for the narrow canyon mouth. Finding he had been beaten, the trapper hastily fired at the disappearing horse, only to realize that in the gathering dust he had missed his mark.

Morning found the black colt miles away, lame and sore but secure in that mountain freedom that his soul had longed for. With daylight he spied something familiar in the distance, and lifting his beautiful head, sent a challenging call over the valley. He was rewarded by being surrounded by half-shy beautiful mountain horses Oh, how happy he was, and the summers slipped quickly away. One very severe winter the mountain horses had been driven down to the prairie to seek food, when the leader, an old, but still beautiful black horse, scented something familiar. Curiosity took him over the brow of the hill. Lying on the scattered snow were two huddled figures, the scent of one stirring all that was noble in that once tamed mountain beauty. He cautiously approached, only to find _ a dead*horse, and a few yards further on, the still form of the only man he had ever loved, his old master. With the first scent of humans, the mountain horses had fled to cover, but the old training had told, for the black horse stood pawing the snow off the still cold figure and calling. For hours he stood guard incessantly calling, somehow knowing it only as a duty, but with the approach of the searchers that his calls had attracted, could be seen the figure of a beautiful black horse making for the fastness of the Rockies, and calling and shrilling as a farewell to bondage for both master and horse. —Cousin Jean Neill.