Samson the Mustang had me perplexed where I should have been gravely alarmed.
Standing outside the stall, I could easily see only what the others had. The bug-eyed hard gaze, the pulsating nostrils, and the body posturing that spoke of imminent threat and certain violence. The horse who had punted minis, tossed goats like they were beanbags, shredded his offspring, and defeated the most hardened cowboys.
But where others had seen contempt and hatred, I saw just cause. Samson was an untrained, unschooled wild horse and he was a monster created by six years of brutality and cruelty. Yet he didn’t seem to want my pity or sympathy. He wanted something else, something more. He wanted to be understood, and in that moment I felt that I was the only person who could understand him.
I was the only person who understood that inwardly Samson was a still wild and free-roaming, proud Mustang stallion, where outwardly he was a brutalized victim.
“Here I come, Samson. Nothing to get worked up over,” I said, committed to it, stepping up into his stall, making sure to leave the door open a bit for a quick escape.
Down the aisle, one of the sisters caught her breath. Samson and I were now sharing the same space, breathing the same thick, rank air, and wondering what would come next. Though mere inches separated us, our experiences, our worlds, had been miles apart.
Time and space stood still. Nothing else moved; nothing else made a sound; nothing else mattered.
Samson stood about 14.2 hands high –or four feet ten inches—and his dark bay coat appeared dull in the weak light. A compact and narrow frame sat veiled beneath his strong personality and firmly established Napoleon complex. His dark black mane, tail, and forelock fell in burr-filled tangles. By virtue of the limited light, the whites of his eyes glowed while the balance of the horse remained hidden in the shadows.
The little that I could observe said that he was a mutt of a horse, yet something about his look was natural, untouched, and pure. Unrefined features spoke to the fact that planned domesticated breeding was foreign to his world. Though the freeze mark branded on his neck at the time of capture estimated his year of birth as 1997, to me he more resembled Earth’s first horse—dawn horse.
Standing hidden in the shadows atop his concrete pedestal, though he remained mostly a mystery, Samson was nature’s horse and God’s gift to man.
Even underweight, his body was muscular and elegant. His watchful almond eyes seemed to say, If you come close, puny man, I will put you down. The choking smell of dung, urine, and Samson’s yeasty breath forced tears from my eyes. Under these cramped, miserable circumstances, most horses would do anything to flee. But I could see Samson was different.
Unlike other horses, Samson would choose to stand and fight.
With his left front leg angled slightly out to the side, he could rotate on a dime and give me a lethal body check. His right hind hoof hovered off the ground, cocked and ready to shatter my legs. Standing parallel to and just inches from Samson’s side, I knew it was imperative to keep in mind that horses have marginal eyesight alongside their body, and blind spots in front of the muzzle and directly behind the rump. Any movement on my part from within these zones would most certainly lead to an immediate defensive response.
I had to micromanage my moves. If I inadvertently swatted at a fly or scratched my chin, I could get trampled. If I sneezed, I might get cow-kicked or head-butted. I had to orchestrate every facet of my presentation to this horse to come across as respectful and calm.
“Easy, big boy,” I said. The muscles in his right shoulder flexed and quivered; the air rushing through his muzzle sounded like the intake of a jet engine. Close now to his right side, I glanced into his eye and saw what I felt was profound, entrenched fear.
I knew I didn’t have much time left. Like a wild animal with its foot caught in a trap, Samson was scared stiff. I was his enemy, and the last thing he wanted was help from anything on two legs. I had never felt this level of terror in all my years of working with traumatized horses—it was palpable, heartbreaking.
To relieve the tension, I decided to speak to Samson as if he were one of my legal clients. Having practiced as a litigator for the last fifteen years, I had dealt with many a difficult client. I enjoyed the law, but horse training had always excited me more. Reshaping a ton of maladjusted horse made me come alive.
Other than the fact that he could send me to my maker, Samson was no different from any of my legal clients: threatening, standoffish, and wearing a huge chip on his shoulder.
“Okay, Samson, what do you say we broker a deal? I’m a lawyer, so everything’s negotiable. I won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt me. You trust me, I’ll trust you. We’ll have a meeting of the minds; we’ll have a contract.”
Samson blinked, then stared hard into my eyes, taking my measure, looking down into me. His gaze now seemed almost appreciative, so I made a decision and returned the stare, talking quietly. Our gazes locked, inputting information the way a computer instantly translates thousands of bytes of data. In a matter of seconds, it was as if we had each viewed the other’s complete life story.
I hoped that he saw that I was a good person, that I cared for him, and that I meant him no harm.
The ball was in his court now. Something about this horse had made me go well past the point of safety; if he wanted to, he could unload on me, and he knew it. With just one ill-timed movement Samson would explode on me, and Amy and her sister would be left to mop up my gelatinous remains.
And then a remarkable thing happened; the hardened Mustang let out a long, exhaustive sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath for the last six years. Previously wound taut as a rubber band, Samson’s rigid frame softened ever so slightly.
“There you go, boy.”
Moving as if underwater, I reached out to him. Only focus and predictability would keep me alive.
He whipped his head to the right and parked his nostrils directly in my hand’s path. With his eyes focused square on my own, Samson blew out a torrent of hot air into my face.
I reached out the rest of the way and touched his shoulder. A violent shudder coursed through him; he recoiled and crow-hopped away from me.
I waited.
I watched him struggle within himself, his eyes wide, his chest heaving. “Come on, boy,” I said, grinning.
Behind me, the women whispered. I ignored them. “Think about it,” I said to Samson. He shifted his weight onto his right legs, leaned toward me, then shifted weight back onto his left limbs, returning to his distant position.
“He’s thinking about putting you down,” said Amy.
Back and forth he went, leaning in, then away, as if someone were rewinding and fast-forwarding him.
After what seemed an eternity, Samson shuffled back over, inches from where I stood. For the first time in six years, this wild horse was in something other than defense and dispatch mode.
Under Samson’s bug-eyed stare, I again laid my hand upon his shoulder. This time he didn’t recoil.
“Son of a bitch!” Amy yelled.
“Shh.”
I looked at his face. I was confused; was he wearing a halter? I could see straps running alongside his cheeks, a noseband. Then, horrified, I realized what I was actually seeing. The Mustang’s face bore the seared imprint of a halter left on his face for years after it had grown too tight.
Our eyes locked. For an instant, it seemed that he was trying to tell me about what he’d been through for all those years—his capture, the terror of internment, the beatings—as if he wanted someone, anyone, to understand.
“Easy, boy.” I rubbed him in tiny circles, mimicking the circular motions horses made with their mouths while grooming herd mates. Tracing the angle of his neck, my fingers found deep, embedded scars—more painful reminders of the rope and years of pain. His chest felt like a topographic map, with a lattice of raised scars, many inflicted by combative stallions, others by bullwhips, lariats, and other tools of man. There was barely a smooth patch o
f skin to be found.
“I don’t know what you’ve been through since they caught you, old boy, but I know where you came from,” I told him. “I know who you are.”
Samson was supposed to be one of the lucky ones. He wasn’t standing knee-deep in a BLM short-term mud lot corral or imprisoned in a long-term holding facility. He had snaked his way through the BLM’s Adopt-a-Horse-or-Burro Program, but the adoption that was supposed to save him had instead damned him. BLM rules and guidelines designed to protect adopted Mustangs had failed Samson and thousands others like him. And now he was shut off, just wanting to be left alone.
The BLM claims that it has respected and followed the mandates of the 1971 Act when managing and culling this nation’s free-roaming wild horses. Mustang advocates and animal welfare organizations alike disagree. Unlike an estimated 90 percent of captured wild Mustangs, Samson had not met his fate in a slaughterhouse. Yet despite this reprieve, his tale had been no less dark, no less sad.
As my hand ran across the ridges and divots, Samson flinched as if his scars were fresh again, as if my touch had reawakened memories of those long days of pain. But then, as if embarrassed by his moment of weakness, he quickly raised up his head, straightened up his posture, and stood tall, proud of who he was and what he’d endured.
He sported his scars like each was the Kentucky Derby’s 564 red rose–laden Garland of Roses. Nothing, it seemed, could beat this horse down. I couldn’t help but admire this proud and prideful Mustang.
The moment seemed right to try a test. “Can someone pass me the halter hanging over by Studs’ stall?”
I reached up above the stall door and took the halter from Amy as Samson shot her a hard look. When she returned the gesture moments later, there was little left to the imagination—these two simply did not get along. As the halter came into view, Samson instantly rotated left and planted his face into the stall’s far corner, hindquarters cocked and ready to kick. I quickly handed the halter back to Amy.
“You’re okay, Samson. You and halters have quite the history, don’t you?”
The halter now gone, Samson shuffled out of his corner and rejoined my company.
I gradually raised and then extended my arm out to him. For the next several minutes, I rubbed Samson’s neck and shoulder until it came time for the day’s second test. Slowly, I removed my hand and left it suspended in midair, some three inches from Samson’s shoulder.
For six long years this horse had fought and won countless battles with myriad enemies, and his herd would be proud. He was a survivor and he had held out for a long time—too long. Now was the time for Samson to drop his guard and make a new start.
After a moment of deliberation, Samson, like a cruise ship edging into its berth, lumbered right until my hand and his body met. Tremor after tremor shot through him. It was his head and heart, fighting again.
“Oh my god, he came to you,” said Amy.
“Imagine that,” I said, Samson’s muscles pulsing beneath my hand.
Despite his imprinted fear of man, despite years in the domestic horse market where he had been subject to unimaginable abuse, this horse stoically and passively permitted the enemy to enter his world. With very little thought and even less effort, he could have put me down. Nonetheless, Samson didn’t punt me through the door and he didn’t trample me to the ground.
By twelve years of age, Samson had grown terribly alone and truly lonely. Exiled, solitary, and needing no one, he nonetheless still held out hope that man could be kind, caring, and compassionate. Samson’s heart, close to dead for far too many years, had won out over his head’s prudent warnings and caution. He, we, had both made a huge leap of faith.
Though I’d been in with Samson for twenty minutes now, I had yet to actually look him over in his entirety. With him now somewhat composed, I took the time to do just that.
Over the years, I had evaluated and handled other wild horses. Just three years back, I’d spent several months training a Mustang gelding similar in size, shape, stature, and coloring to other horses. But his spirit and character were like nothing I’d dealt with before.
And so it was with Samson, only there was more. It wasn’t his wild roots that made Samson so dangerous and unpredictable. It was the horrendous abuse he’d taken over the years. That, mixed with the total lack of the companionship horses need to feel right in their hearts, had turned Samson into an engine of hate and rage. Despite that, he let me in, let me touch him, let me live. However deeply he had buried them, he still held memories of being part of something bigger and better, something ordinary and familial. The idea that he still grieved over the loss of these things, after all the years of internment and abuse, broke my heart.
“He is a true Mustang.” I said aloud. “And he’s not crazy. Just abused, scared, terribly sad, and angry at the world.” I rubbed his neck. “I bet you made those BLM contractors earn their pay.” He turned his head and stared at me. I lifted my hand but kept it suspended. Reaching his muzzle over, Samson took in the newfound smell of a gentling hand.
For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt something other than the bullwhip’s lacerating blows, the lariat’s choking constriction, and the pain associated with repetitive blunt-force trauma.
Then, everything changed. Without warning, he leapt straight up and slapped at the concrete floor with his right hoof, the sound of it like a bolt of lightning cleaving pine. He spun around and shot out two rapid-fire, dual-legged hind-end kicks at me, both missing my chest by inches, the wind from them fluttering my shirt.
He turned and stared, this time with the look of a man about to turn into a werewolf. Get out while you still can.
I backed out slowly and slipped through the door. Samson was still staring at me, breathing like Darth Vader. What had happened?
Then I heard the sound of an approaching helicopter. I secured his stall door with the planks as the sound of the helicopter slowly faded away.
“You almost got killed, and you’re smiling,” said Lisa.
I was. Though being trapped in Samson’s stall during his meltdown was anything but enjoyable, it gave me the chance to understand one of this horse’s many demons. His most feared and despised demon, in fact. It had chased him for miles through mountain passes, separated and destroyed his family, and ripped him away from the only home he had ever known. Samson knew to flee and evade, but locked in his stall he could do neither. He was a trapped soldier and a gladiator without armor as his greatest foe prepared to swoop down from the clouds and take away what little he had left.
Don Quixote had his windmills, Ahab had his whale, and Samson had the helicopter.
Samson stared at me, his face now vacant and hollow, without the light I’d seen in it when we’d connected. Now he seemed opaque, hopeless. His was a thousand-yard stare, weighted down by sadness and despair. Fleetingly intrigued by my attention, Samson was once again alone and caged. Like his brothers, sisters, and cousins—now near fifty thousand strong—confined in BLM holding facilities throughout the country, lifeless, listless, and hopeless.
They were all horses who had survived in their world only to suffer and die in ours.
“I can’t give you back what you once had,” I told him. “No one can. But you deserve to at least get out of this stall, and act like the horse you once were.”
My brief time with Samson, Amy’s accounts, and my observations told me that this was the most troubled and haunted horse I had ever come across. Samson was boiling over with rage, contempt, and fear. He was allegedly perpetually angry, socially dysfunctional, maladjusted, and hated anything and everything on two and four legs. And yet he spared me. For some reason, this horse still held out hope that he was wrong, that I, that we, could be so much better.
As Amy walked me to my truck, I asked what she planned for Samson. “There’s only one plan,” she said. “I can’t keep a horse like this here, Mitch. Either he gets broke and mounted, or he’ll have to go, and I don’t think anyone out ther
e will take him.”
Her answer left me confused. I could understand if Amy wanted Samson to be taught the basics such as how to respect her space, walk under lead, and harness his temper. But as for this Mustang being mounted, that seemed highly unlikely. Yet Amy stuck to her guns; this lawless wild Mustang needed to have a saddle and rider atop his back. He needed to be normal, like every other horse, an all-or-nothing proposition for Samson.
The gravity of Amy’s response shook me to my core. This was the last thing that I wanted to hear. My twenty years in the horse world had recently taken a toll: I had countless injuries that could be traced back to owners misrepresenting their horses’ issues, and organizations taking advantage of my donated services had disillusioned me. I had become a disenchanted crash test dummy. The icing on the cake was when, just weeks before, a husband and wife had sold a horse who had been promised to me. The Quarter Horse had been like a brother to me and I was crushed.
For fifteen years, I’d been the only one who could mount him. For fifteen years, I didn’t charge for my services and instead waited patiently to call him my own. He was an amazing and gifted athlete and a cantankerous, combative, and moody pupil. But after a neighboring horseman witnessed one of our rides, his fate was sealed. With ten thousand dollars in hand his owners trailered him off with not so much as a phone call.
I was fed up with horse owners, their dishonesty and deceit, and all the drama. I would not get attached to another hard case. I was done with horse training, prepared to give up my one true passion.
I wasn’t there to rescue or rehabilitate Samson. I was there to evaluate Studs, and as I had finished my exam and concluded that a knee injury would delay his donation to the riding center, my responsibilities were now complete.
But what if Samson needed me?
As an aging, set-in-his-ways, stallion-like formerly wild horse, Samson would be a true challenge to even the most accomplished trainer. These attributes alone would make Samson nearly impossible to school. Factor in his abusive and oppressive last six years and the lethal mix had created an explosively violent, solitary beast. Samson seemed well past the point of reeducation, socialization, and training.
Last Chance Mustang Page 3