Mustang: Wild Spirit of the West

by Marguerite Henry

  Charley shook his head as if I were very young and very foolish. “Who ever heard of a rancher going off in the middle of July? Even one who does have a hired hand? Besides,” he added earnestly, “I want to see this bill passed as much as I ever wanted anything in my life. I couldn’t do it in a thousand years. But you can! It’ll be a living monument to all the Annies and Charleys in the world.”

  That settled it. Nothing could stop me now. Charley and twenty thousand mustangs were driving me to Washington.

  Then panic set in again. I had only four days to get ready! Only four days to rehearse my part! How could I make the committee see and feel the cruelty of the air roundups? How could I make them care enough to do something about it? A sudden idea startled me. Why not make up a book for each member of the committee so they’d all be with me as I talked, watching just the way I did at Black Rock Desert?

  Charley’s eyes lit with enthusiasm at the idea. He went to work with a will, glad to have The Cause big inside him again. In Reno he found some notebooks, just the right size, with hard covers of blue buckram, and he bought India ink to make big black lettering, and he wheedled a photographer into making dozens of prints at cost.

  Mr. Harris wanted to help, too. He insisted I do my mimeographing at the office, on his time. It was good to work hard again, pounding out stencils, cranking the machine, assembling the sheets.

  Advice came pouring in, free. Say this! Say that! Suggestions piled up. Why not ride into Washington in full cowboy rig—chaps and boots and spurs and a big hat tilted on the back of your head?

  “I’ll think it over,” I said, but Mom made other plans. She and Pa spent Saturday and Sunday at the Double Lazy Heart. Pa gave Charley a hand with the baling, so he wouldn’t have to breathe all that dust, and Mom made me a blue linen dress, summery and blue as a Nevada sky.

  Mom and I had a wonderful time, chattering to the whizzing tune of the sewing machine. Mostly, it was fast-as-lightning talk. But in the middle of a seam Mom took her foot off the pedal and faced me squarely.

  “Annie,” she said, clearing her throat and moistening her lips, “I never been one to look up my family tree, because how do I know it wouldn’t have a few wormy apples? But now I wisht I had, because my name being Clay, I wouldn’t be a whit surprised if my forebears don’t go right back to that famous Senator and horse-breeder, Henry Clay.” She paused, shaking her head in sudden laughter. “Old Henry Clay,” she continued, amusement and reverence all mixed up in her voice. “Cantankerous as a sour mule he was. But a bulldog kind of fighter for what he believed in.”

  I could tell Mom had more on her mind; so I just kept quiet while she finished the seam. Then she snipped off the thread and removed her glasses the better to see me.

  “Remember, Annie,” she said, “Henry Clay is the one who declared: I’d rather be right than President. So when you’re up there on that rostrum, or wherever it is you’ll be standin’, just remember you are in the right. So speak out strong, for you’re a Clay as well as a Bronn, and don’t ever forget it!”

  “I won’t forget it, Mom.”

  • • •

  The days were flying. Mrs. Warren had called on Thursday. Friday the mimeographing of my long speech. Saturday the sewing spree. And Sunday the notebooks readied—the pictures pasted in, just so, hand-in-hand with the words.

  Came Monday, and you should have seen my desk! It was Christmas in July. Package piled on package. And underneath the tissue and bows were presents to make my head whirl. I felt royal . . . like a queen setting out to visit one of her colonies.

  There was white cowhide luggage from Mrs. Harris, three pieces of it! And a purse with next month’s salary from Mr. Harris. And a hat from the Junior Harrises; it was a little feather piece in white, small enough to sit on the back of my head, and I could pile my hair high in front of it, higher on one side than the other for that optical illusion; remember? And right there I tried it on, and the office boy let out a wolf whistle to brave me for the trip.

  All this while Ruthie was standing in the most uncomfortable way, as though she had something to give too, but held back because of its smallness. At last, quite shyly she held up a pair of gloves, washed to snowy whiteness. “See if they fit, Annie. They’re mine, but I want you to have them.”

  I pulled them on easily. “Why, Ruthie,” I said, “they fit to a T. And I don’t have any of my own.”

  It’s funny how her little homey present made me cry when all the big ones didn’t.

  Tuesday. Good-byes. Out in the field early to say a word to Hobo. “I’ll be back soon,” I promised. “You take good care of the other horses. And oh, Hobo, watch over Charley while I’m gone.”

  Hobo wore hollows above his eyes now and his back swayed a bit with age, but he seemed all the dearer for that. He nudged me for a treat. I had a handful of shredded carrot to give and he lipped it into his mouth, chewing with slow measure, eyeing me all the while.

  Unlike Hobo, Charley hated good-byes. I think he had planned to arrive at the airport just in time for my new luggage, heavy with the booklets, to get aboard. Mr. and Mrs. Slattery were there ahead of us with a box of candy, and the Governor’s wife with a corsage. And Mom and Pa had brought me a scarf with wild horses leaping all over it. They seemed pleased when I tied it over my hat the way stewardesses do to keep their hair from blowing.

  Charley had nothing for me, so I thought, and I was glad. It would have been more than I could bear. He and I walked out to the boarding ramp alone. There, with a quick motion, he tucked a tiny suede pouch into my hand. With a kiss he was gone. From my window seat I could see him climb into our old car, I could see him swing out of the parking lot and head toward home, to wait. My heart felt empty as a crater.

  Carefully I laid the tiny pouch in my lap. I took off my scarf with the horses running all over it, and folded it into the pocket of my handbag. As the plane taxied to the runway and turned into the wind, I lost all sight of Charley. The captain was checking the engines now, one at a time, and the great plane sat there shuddering and roaring. Then another small turn and suddenly we were rushing down the runway and climbing to the sun. I looked down with homesickness upon the green Truckee Meadows melting away into the mountains.

  Slowly I took off Ruthie’s gloves and blew into them as Mom had taught me. “That way you make the fingers ready for the next wearing,” she said. All this I did before picking up the little pouch and loosening the drawstring. Then almost timidly I slid my fingers inside and took out a slim, cool, piece of serpentine rock. It was striped horizontally in many colors—soft greens and yellows and grays and white. It was only about two inches long and shaped vaguely like a little horse, and it fit into the palm of my hand like a cool blessing. I held it a long time before I could read the note that came with it.

  Dear Annie,

  Meet Billii Bizhanee. He is a horse fetish that once belonged to the Navajos. To them the horse is ALL: their eyes, their legs, their heart. The old Indian brave who sold it to me said it belonged to a Medicine Man who carried it in a silver-studded bag along with his pollens, his shells, his bird feathers, and other magic things.

  It is very old, Annie. Feel how smooth and worn it is. The Navajos believe it to be sacred because only mountains struck by sacred lightning produce veins of serpentine. They believe, too, that a spirit dwells inside to give supernatural power to its owner.

  The Navajo word for horse is Billii; their word for luck is Bizhanee. So carry him in your purse, Annie dear, and rub him often for luck. Godspeed and Bizhanee to you, my little one.

  Charley had forgotten to sign it, but I touched the place where his name should come. Then I refolded the note, tucked it away, and closed my eyes. With the little horse-figure still clutched in my hand I fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.

  23. In the Witness Seat

  IT’S FUNNY how you take pictures in your mind. You go into a strange room and come out remembering only one thing sharply—maybe a doll lying face down under a
radiator, or a pot of pink-blooming violets in the sun. That’s the way it was with me in Washington.

  Mrs. Warren and Mr. Baring met me at the airport, and after a warm welcome, Mr. Baring said, “The newspaper people can’t wait to meet you.”

  At my startled look, he put a gentle hand on my arm. “There’s no need to be nervous, Annie. Newspeople are friendly folk. We’ll go right to my office now.”

  When I walked in the door, Mr. Baring’s words of assurance flew out the window. I expected to see three or four reporters, but there were so many they were standing and sitting double on chair-arms and window sills, and in my excited state they appeared to be hanging from the very ceiling. With scarcely time for a greeting, their questions came at me, thick and hard as hail. Yet afterward the only one I remembered was a lady reporter’s asking how I managed to keep Ruthie’s white gloves so clean!

  But that evening when I read the newspapers up in my beautiful hotel room, my eyes opened in astonishment. All of the stories were lively and honest and full of fact. And between the lines you could feel the reporters’ sympathy and outrage at the plight of the mustangs. I tore out the articles and had just finished a note to Charley when Mr. and Mrs. Baring whisked me off to a dinner party.

  It was an elegant bib-and-tucker affair. Senators and Representatives were thick, and some as plump as raisins in a pudding. I remember how kind everyone was, calling me Annie as if we were old friends. But that’s all I remember.

  I lived that whole day-before-The-Day as if I were sleepwalking. I seemed to be two people. One of me was in Washington, in all the excitement and glitter. The other me was still in Nevada—running barefoot in the alfalfa fields, riding bareback in the wind; and I was still Charley’s wife, sweeping our wide-board floors and washing dishes while I had all Heaven to look out on; and I was still Pa’s Pardner—and oh, so homesick.

  But next morning, the moment I entered the Judiciary Chamber, my two selves fused. I was one person: Wild Horse Annie on the warpath! No crusader marching to save the Holy Land could have felt his purpose more fiercely. Everything suddenly came into focus, sharp and clear. The room itself. Big. Cavernous. Darkly cool. The groups of sober talking men.

  “We’ll be sitting at the witness table right up front,” Mr. Baring whispered, trying to put encouragement into his voice. He was on one side of me and Tim Seward, his assistant, on the other, both holding an arm as if I needed crutches.

  “You’ll be the lead-off witness,” Mr. Baring added.

  “Witness?” The word brought me up sharply. This was a courtroom! I was on trial!

  “Not you, silly!” It was Charley’s voice, clear-sounding as though he were at my ear. “It’s the mustangs. On trial for their lives. You’re here to save them.” Impulsively I reached into my purse and found my Billii Bizhanee. For the next two hours I held it very tightly.

  “At that small table is the court reporter,” Mr. Baring said, pushing my chair in behind me. “He’ll take down everything that’s said. And on either side, up front, are the newsmen.”

  “That many?” Down went my heart.

  “Packed solid this morning, aren’t they?” Tim Seward said.

  I gulped. Then I saw three friendly, familiar blue notebooks on the table. Was it just two days ago that Charley and I had snipped and pasted them together? Or two years? Each had a little card with a name on it, like place cards at a party. Mr. Baring’s copy was in front of him on my left, mine was in the middle, Mr. Seward’s on my right. I resisted the temptation to peek inside. If I didn’t know it all by heart now, I never would. I squinched my eyes tight shut. Without turning my head I could hear the murmur of the people coming in, filling the seats behind us.

  “By jove, it’s a full house!” Mr. Seward exclaimed. “Quite a tribute to you, Annie.” And in the same breath, “Look! The committee!”

  My eyes flew open to see a file of sixteen men walk by. Some were middle-aged and paunchy, some young and eager. Solemnly they took their places around the table on the platform in front of us, and O miracles and wonders! That table—it was shaped like a horseshoe! I squeezed my Billii B. with a strong flicker of hope.

  The shuffling sound of chairs and feet subsided. For a moment I was on a quiet island of thought. In the paneled recesses I fancied I could see shadow-figures of long ago, there to observe, perhaps, how it was all working out, this government of, by, and for the people, this dream they had dreamed.

  “Mr. Chairman!” It was Mr. Baring’s voice, and it had a resolute ring. “My bill before your committee this morning has as its purpose the outlawing of motorized and airborne roundups of wild horses and burros on all lands everywhere in the United States.”

  He paused for a breath and the meeting settled down.

  “This bill,” he went on, “was inspired by a young woman, the wife of Charles Johnston, who operates the Double Lazy Heart Ranch in Storey County, Nevada. Her courageous fight against the ruthless slaughter of the mustangs has earned her the name, Wild Horse Annie.”

  I felt eyes studying me to see if the name fit.

  “But before listening to her testimony, let us pause. I believe that nothing in this country ought be done without prayer.

  “God of Justice . . . ” the surging roll of his voice reached into every corner.

  I looked up, not meaning to, but gladdened to see a shaft of sunlight kindle the American flag above the chairman’s head.

  “We deplore man’s inhumanity to man and beast. Without justice and fairness we are hopelessly lost. Help us, we pray, to deal justly in all things. In His name, Amen.”

  Heads slowly rose as the voice went on. “Members of the committee, the report of our witness is founded on firsthand evidence. She has twice risked her life to obtain this vital information. Gentlemen, I am proud to present my fellow-Nevadan, Annie Bronn Johnston!”

  24. “We the People—”

  AS I STOOD UP in the waiting quiet, Mr. Baring opened my notebook for me. He skipped the title page and the table of contents, and turned to page one so that I could read. But the only thing I wanted to read was the faces of the committee. Some were wide awake and alert, like track runners waiting for the gun. Some were relaxed and drowsy as if longing to finish out their morning’s sleep. There were worried ones and wool-gathering ones, and a pipe-smoking thinker who put me in mind of Pa. I had to corral them all and lead them back in time and space.

  “When Columbus discovered the New World,” I began, surprised at how big my voice sounded, “he found no native horses. No wild ones. No tame ones. None at all.”

  Sixteen book-covers flapped open. Sixteen pairs of eyes looked down to read, then up to listen.

  “The first horses to reach North America,” I said, “were brought here in the early 1500’s by a Spanish adventurer, Don Hernando Cortés.”

  At the mere mention of his name I saw him in my library book—in a tiny skirt like a ballet dancer, but the top of him in an armored vest, and his hair flowing black, and his eyes burning black, and his mustachios black. But I didn’t mention all that; I wanted to keep everything bristling with facts. So I went on.

  “His orders from the King of Spain were ‘to sail the ocean-sea and conquer the New World.’ He and his conquistadores were skilled horsemen and they easily took over the land, even though the native Indians outnumbered them a thousand to one. The Indians simply fled in terror, thinking each horse and man was one evil monster.

  “Horses were our Salvation, Cortés sent word back to the King. After God, to the horses belonged every victory.”

  The man with the pipe relit it and sat back in comfort.

  “What kind of horses were they?” I asked, and suddenly I wanted to laugh out loud. Here I was treating this august body of Congressmen, some twice my age, as if they were my weekend children! But they seemed just as eager for the answer.

  “To understand their breeding,” I said, “we must go back to Arabia, to the Prophet Mohammed. A thousand years before Cortés was born, M
ohammed had a vision. An angel commanded him to save the peoples of the world. So he summoned his tribesmen, and on their fiery little Arabian steeds they swept across the deserts of Asia and Africa, conquering tribe after tribe, along with all their horses.

  “Nothing could stop them! Not even the Mediterranean. They rowed across it, horses and all, to invade Spain. It was a savage conquest, but some good came of it. The swift little Arabian and Barb horses were mated with the stout Spanish horses to produce a new breed, known as Andalusian. And it was this hardy Andalusian stock which Corteś, and later the missionaries, and later still the settlers, brought to America.”

  Everything in the room was quiet except for the stenotype machine, which made a clicking sound like the kind a beetle makes flying against a lighted window. The room seemed to contract. In all the world I was aware of only the committee and me. The committee bending over their books, turning the pages, and me reaching out to them.

  “How did the Spanish horses get free?” I asked, warming to my own words. “It was the Indians who helped them! As soon as they overcame their fear, they saw what good buffalo hunters the Spanish horses would make. And so they lured them away from the missions and ranches.

  “Of course, some horses sneaked away on their own, and stole away free. The New World seemed created just for them. It was a whole horse heaven of endless grass! Different from any they had known. They thrived on it, grew even tougher with their freedom, raised colts and grandcolts.

  “In time their numbers swelled until the plains were flooded with horses. The sound of their hoofs was like the roaring of thunder in the mountains. From Mexico to Oregon more than five million were roaming free.”

  Sixteen pages rustled like the leaves of our cottonwood when the wind blows. I saw the next page in my mind, the word mesteño underlined in red ink. It was my cue.