But I no longer believed in safe. I didn’t care at all about laws or a man called senator, and I didn’t know or care about public or private land. I wanted to be free. So when the man moved his horse a little closer to the fence, I reared and showed my teeth.
The man looked afraid, and soon he and Annie trotted away.
Before they left, though, Annie turned to me. “Now that,” she said sternly, “was not very nice!”
Too bad, I thought.
Only thing was, I had begun to get used to Annie, even though she was human. I actually looked forward to her coming to the corral every day. Without the herd, I had no one to talk to at all, no one to listen to me, except for those persnickety horses who only wanted freedom, just as I did. And it seemed that they were too filled with their own misery to bother with me or even one another—though I noticed that some began to allow humans to touch them, and one—not just Clay—even allowed a human on his back! Were they the mustangs who had been around humans the longest? Or were they just the weak, docile ones, ones who had given in to loneliness, given up all hope of freedom?
And then, one morning, right after that senator person had come, instead of just sitting on the fence and talking, Annie jumped down inside the corral, standing close to me.
I reared up, then settled down.
Annie looked into my eyes. She didn’t turn away, like that first time. She looked right at me, head to head, eye to eye. That was how Mama had looked when she’d forced Sota away.
Why?
I didn’t know. But I turned and fled.
Annie followed me. On foot. She had nothing in her hands, nothing to capture me with. She just kept walking along, as though she were pushing me away from her.
I fled, running round and round, sticking close to the fence. Annie kept on walking behind, following me, facing me, her body turned to mine. And then that Annie stopped. She looked away. She turned away.
She walked away from me, as though she had no interest in making me run from her any longer. The game was over.
It was horse language she was using. I recognized it from my mama, from the mares. She was telling me that she could push me away—with her eyes, her body. But then she turned. And told me I could come back.
Well, I didn’t want to go back. Instead, I bolted for the meadow.
Next day, though, I did go back. I was curious, just like my mama had always said I was. Again that day, Annie did the same thing. She walked toward me, and I ran from her. Then, after I had fled from her, she turned and went the other way.
This went on for many days.
And then, one day, when Annie turned to walk away, I followed.
I came up from behind. I got real close. She stood still. She didn’t turn to me. She didn’t let her eyes slide sideways to look at me. She simply stood still. I came close, really close.
I touched her shoulder with my nose. She didn’t move. She was as still as a rock, a tree.
Then she put a hand on my neck. I barely felt it. But it was there.
I fled.
A Strange Game
I stayed away for some days and nights. But after a while, I came back. And again, the same thing happened. Annie chased me away, then turned her back on me. Only now, I began to follow her. It was a game. But it was a game I liked.
I knew she was saying I could trust her. She was safe. Not a predator. She would not harm me. We were partners. That was what the fleeing, then coming back, was telling me.
I began to like her voice, too, even though I didn’t understand all of what she said, like about laws. Still, I knew she was telling me that she cared about me and about what happened to me. Not just me, but all mustangs.
After the day when I had fled from Annie’s touch, she didn’t touch me again for a long, long while. But then, one day, when I touched her with my nose, she once again put a hand on my neck. I could feel my flanks quiver, but I didn’t flee. We stood together, until Annie moved away.
After that, each day, I let her stroke me more. And then, one day, she reached up to scratch that place between my eyes. I let her do it. I was telling her that I trusted her. I did.
Strange, how I had begun to feel at home on the ranch. There were many other horses, ones like Big Clay, who let men ride on their backs, and mustangs like me, wild and still angry. But none of those mustangs went anywhere near Annie. I was the only one who trusted her, I guess. Was I a fool?
There were also other animals that I came to know as bulls and sheep and cows. There were humans, too, but I kept away from them.
And then, one evening around sunset, Annie came to the corral to play our game. She walked toward me, and I ran away, round and round the corral. Annie stopped and turned away. I followed her, as always.
Only that evening, she did something different. When I came close, rather than just touch and scratch my head, she laid herself against me. She reached her arms over my back and stayed there awhile.
“There,” she murmured. “There.”
I leaned into her as she leaned into me. We stood that way. Together.
Me. And a human.
I hardly knew what to think.
A New Chance
Soon enough, winds began to howl, and the snows came, covering up the earth. The pickings were slim for grazing—though back in the corral, Annie always had grain and hay set out for me. Then, after a while, the snow slowly melted off the ridges and tiny shoots of green appeared. And after that, the sun beat fiercely down upon us. Years were passing. I had been on the ranch for three years, Annie said, and I was a grown horse now. And I was still sad. Yes, I liked Annie. But I longed for freedom. I even wanted a mare, a family of my own.
I knew Annie knew of my sadness. One evening, when she came to the corral for our game, and we were chasing one another around, I suddenly stopped. The ground had moved lightly beneath my feet.
“What?” Annie asked.
The ground trembled some more.
“What is it?” Annie asked.
A herd. Running free.
“Something’s worrying you,” she said. “Do you want to stop our game?”
Yes.
My heart was pounding hard and even hurting a little.
Annie moved closer to me. “What is it?” she asked again. “Are you frightened?”
No. A herd. Far off, somewhere, a herd was traveling. I was sure of it. And from the way the ground moved, it was a huge herd.
Sounds began to reach us then, muffled, soft, like distant thunder. I trotted to the fence, leaning my neck way out, my ears pricked forward, my eyes fixed on the horizon. Night was coming, and a mist was rising over the range, and I peered through it.
Annie climbed up on the fence beside me. She looked toward the horizon also, and I heard her make a sound. She had seen it, too. Far away, far, far away, high along the ridge, a cloud of dust was rising. I couldn’t yet see the mustangs. But they were there. I knew.
Could I get to them?
Did I want to?
Wild herds were hunted down. By humans with wings. And here, I was safe.
But I wasn’t free.
The herds ran free.
Still, even if I joined up, wild herds didn’t always welcome outsiders.
I was big now, though, almost a full-grown stallion. I could fight my way in if need be. I’d learned a lot since I was that scared little colt who feared Sota. Or I could stay around the edges till the herd got used to me and let me in.
For a really long time, I stood there watching, listening, Annie beside me. And then, through the mists and the rising dust, the herd came into view. I could make out shapes: stallions running along the outer edges of the herd, their tails high. Mares leading. And colts, many, many colts and fillies.
Closer they came, and closer. Manes were flying, and I could feel the thundering of hooves up close. I breathed in their familiar wild mustang smell.
There were different family groups, some with just a few mares, some with many, and it took a
very long time for each one to pass. Then, once a group passed, another came on.
Annie slid closer to me along the fence. She laid a hand on my head. She stroked that place between my eyes. I leaned into her.
“Do you want to join them?” Annie whispered. “Do you want to run free?”
Did I?
For a long time, we continued to stand together, watching, listening. And then Annie climbed down from the fence. She left the corral. She went out to the swinging gate, the one that looked as though it was made of trees. She reached high and lifted the heavy crossbar that kept it closed. She pushed hard against it, and the gate swung wide.
I stared at that open gate, my heart thudding inside of me. I didn’t move.
Annie came back. She climbed the fence beside me. It was dark now, and stars were just beginning to peep out. Annie put her hand on my head. I bent my neck and again leaned into her, letting her scratch that place between my eyes.
I backed away then, turned, and trotted to the gate. For a very long time, I stood by that open gate. A very long time.
And then I made my decision.
APPENDIX
MORE ABOUT THE MUSTANG
Early History
It is widely believed that most horses in the United States today are descendants of horses brought here by the Spanish colonists. The horse actually originated in North America, having lived here for over fifty million years. Then, about eight to ten thousand years ago, for reasons that are not fully understood, the horse in North America became extinct.
Horses were reintroduced when the Spanish colonists came to America in the 1400s and 1500s, bringing with them some of their finest horses. These horses were mated, and their populations grew. Once the native peoples of North America, as well as military and others, saw how useful horses were, the supply was not big enough to meet the demand. Breeding farms were set up, providing a rich supply of horses, many of whom later roamed freely. These free-roaming mustangs (named after the Spanish word mesteño, which means wild or stray), although many people call them wild, are technically feral, which means that their ancestors were domesticated.
Since they come from widely mixed backgrounds, mustangs vary in coat colors. They can be brown or black or white, or combinations of colors. They also vary in size. Horses are measured in “hands”—a hand being about four inches. The measurement is taken at the withers, an area by the shoulder blades. Thus, sixteen hands is a little over five feet tall. Most mustangs stand about thirteen hands tall, but some can be as tall as sixteen hands.
Overpopulation
Unfortunately, mustangs were so well suited to their new home that their success at breeding was also their downfall. During the early part of the twentieth century, an estimated two million mustangs roamed over the range lands in the West, many of them in Nevada. Instead of people viewing them as potentially useful as well as beautiful, there was great pressure to “do something” to control the herds. The mustangs were competing with domesticated livestock for grazing land and water rights.
The horror of trapping and killing and even torturing these wild mustangs began. Ranchers took part in systematic killings, rounding up mustang herds by plane or helicopter or with land vehicles. The mustangs were corralled, then sent off to slaughterhouses. The meat was sold as dog food, or sometimes shipped overseas to countries that permitted the sale of horse meat for human consumption. The ranchers claimed nothing else could be done to maintain the land for their livestock.
Others, however, thought differently.
Wild Horse Annie
As awareness of the mustangs’ situation came to the public eye, the horror began to change. Many of these changes were due to the actions of a woman named Velma Bronn Johnston, nicknamed Wild Horse Annie. The real Wild Horse Annie was a grown woman at the time Black Cloud takes place. Annie had a great affinity for horses, having grown up with them on a ranch where horses were treated with respect and dignity. She had been confined to a breathing apparatus for a long year as a child, possibly due to polio, and she keenly understood the need to be free. She had also seen up close the cruelty that was now being perpetrated on mustangs in the wild. Thus, she began a campaign to bring public attention to the plight of the horses. One of the many ways she did this was by enlisting the help of schoolchildren, asking them to bring their concerns to the attention of their senators and representatives.
Thousands of letters written by young people from all over the country poured into officials’ offices, begging them to protect the horses. Children even sent small amounts of money to help in the effort. Annie, along with Nevada state senator James Slattery, was able to get laws passed that prevented the roundup and slaughter of mustangs on private lands in Nevada. However, since so much of the state was open land, that law had very little effect.
Wild Horse Annie showed these photographs of cruelty to mustangs to Congress in 1959.
Annie didn’t give up. With speeches to Congress and to any public audience willing to listen, and with the perseverance of the children, Annie was able to have another, more effective law passed in 1959, which became known as the Wild Horse Annie Act. This act ensured that wild horses could no longer be hunted and captured on private or state land.
Still, this was not enough for Wild Horse Annie. She continued her work on behalf of the horses, and in 1971, Congress unanimously passed the Wild Free-Roaming Horse and Burro Act, which was signed into law by President Nixon on December 15, 1971. This act made it illegal to capture or disturb any free-roaming horse. The act also mandated that horses be transferred if the land where they lived could no longer sustain them. Mustangs now roam free in protected sanctuaries—many of them in Nevada.
However, as helpful and humane as these acts were, there is still a problem: what is to be done about the many horses who continue to proliferate in the Western lands as well as in the sanctuaries? In some places, the land has been stripped of vegetation and the environment cannot support these horses.
Today, there are dozens of organizations that support the humane management of these animals, within the parameters of the congressional acts. There are events throughout the country that let people adopt mustangs—though the adoption process and the keeping and training of mustangs are not easy. There are also organizations dedicated to finding ways to control the mustang population and to locating places for the horses to live and thrive.
Much gratitude is due to Wild Horse Annie, as well as to the children who helped her. They succeeded in protecting the lives of the mustangs and the land on which they live.
Alabama, 1856
Tennessee Rose is a dark bay Tennessee Walking Horse with a rose-shaped mark on her forehead. She loves dashing around the plantation in the running walk that her breed is famous for, then coming back to her stall and her friend Levi, the slave boy who is her groom. But as the Civil War approaches, Rosie begins to question slavery, and to hope that Levi will be free. Here is Rosie’s story … in her own words.
About the Author
Patricia Hermes is the author of over forty novels for children and young adults and two nonfiction books for adults.
As a child, she fell in love with horses and spent many a day (and night) “stealing” rides bareback on a neighbor horse who grazed in a nearby field. However, since she grew up in and around New York City, and since horseback riding was an expensive proposition, there weren’t many opportunities for lessons. Later, though, when she got older and moved, there was much more opportunity to connect with her beloved horses, especially in places like Virginia and Connecticut. She no longer had to “steal” rides, but began taking riding lessons, and was particularly attracted to—and challenged by—a classically beautiful type of riding called dressage, also sometimes called horse ballet. Although she has never “owned” a horse, many horses have owned her heart.
A resident of Connecticut, and the mother of five, she frequently speaks at schools and conferences around the country.
About the
Illustrators
When Astrid Sheckels was growing up, she was never happier than when she had a paintbrush or pencil in her hand, a good book to read, and a furry animal nearby. Her favorite things to draw were animals, both real and imaginary.
Astrid is a fine artist and the illustrator of a number of picture books and novels, including the award-winning The Scallop Christmas and The Fish House Door. She still likes to sneak animals into her illustrations! She lives and maintains her studio in the rolling hills of Western Massachusetts.
To learn more about Astrid and her work, visit astridsheckels.com.
Ruth Sanderson grew up with a love for horses. She has illustrated and retold many fairy tales and likes to feature horses in them whenever possible. Her book about a magical horse, The Golden Mare, the Firebird, and the Magic Ring, won the Texas Bluebonnet Award.
Ruth and her daughter have two horses, an Appaloosa named Thor and a quarter horse named Gabriel. She lives with her family in Massachusetts.
To find out more about her adventures with horses and the research she does to create Horse Diaries illustrations, visit her website, ruthsanderson.com.
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