Prologue 4 ~ Page 19
While Bernice gave him her view of how a small taxpayer looks at big business controlling big government, I sat down with a piece of cardboard and started writing. When I tacked the result on a tree with a horseshoe nail, this official came running, "What do you think you are doing?"
"I'm filing a mining claim on this land so that I have a legal right to keep the horses here for mining purposes."
After another exchange of viewpoints, I sent BJ for our ax to start cutting trees down for "mining purposes."
It was finally agreed that we could camp as long as needed, provided the horses were kept out of the official campground. I wasn't there when the sheriff arrived the next day to tell us to keep our animals inside the campground, but by now my son had caught on how to live The Code of the West when dealing with cattle barons. He pointed out our notices, and asked when the rancher was going to be arrested for claim jumping.
Bernice, James, and I weren't there to watch the deputy raise a cloud of dust leaving, for we were on our way to deliver the truck. About halfway there, it threw a rod. There was no mistaking the loud clatter of that poor engine's death cry. Without a word we pulled off to the side of the road, and sat there in silence—until I began to chuckle.
We didn't have to worry about the truck breaking down anymore. It struck me as hilarious. Soon we all were insanely giggling. By the time we had picked our saddles out of the back and struck off back up the highway with thumbs out to passing traffic, we were roaring. No wonder we didn't get a ride for an hour and a half.
It was evening by the time we started walking down that dirt road, once again. I had stopped to make a phone call. I offered to throw in the trailer into our trade, along with what was left of the truck, provided they picked up both by themselves.
Later I was to pat myself on the back for this proviso, for we learned that when the green machine was being towed in, the hitch broke, and this jinxed truck tried to end it all forever by rolling down a hill and over an embankment.
Not our problem anymore. All we had to do was have the horses delivered. One was a sexy palomino, and the other a snappy stepping little pinto. I have always felt that a horse name should have an appropriate meaning. For the round and firmly packed banana colored blond, I picked Chiquita, which also honored our start for Mexico, as in Spanish it means little girl. For the Canadian end of our journey, all we could think of was a French-Canadian word for tiny, so the Pinto became, Petite.
"I'm filing a mining claim on this land so that I have a legal right to keep the horses here for mining purposes."
After another exchange of viewpoints, I sent BJ for our ax to start cutting trees down for "mining purposes."
It was finally agreed that we could camp as long as needed, provided the horses were kept out of the official campground. I wasn't there when the sheriff arrived the next day to tell us to keep our animals inside the campground, but by now my son had caught on how to live The Code of the West when dealing with cattle barons. He pointed out our notices, and asked when the rancher was going to be arrested for claim jumping.
Bernice, James, and I weren't there to watch the deputy raise a cloud of dust leaving, for we were on our way to deliver the truck. About halfway there, it threw a rod. There was no mistaking the loud clatter of that poor engine's death cry. Without a word we pulled off to the side of the road, and sat there in silence—until I began to chuckle.We didn't have to worry about the truck breaking down anymore. It struck me as hilarious. Soon we all were insanely giggling. By the time we had picked our saddles out of the back and struck off back up the highway with thumbs out to passing traffic, we were roaring. No wonder we didn't get a ride for an hour and a half.
It was evening by the time we started walking down that dirt road, once again. I had stopped to make a phone call. I offered to throw in the trailer into our trade, along with what was left of the truck, provided they picked up both by themselves.
Later I was to pat myself on the back for this proviso, for we learned that when the green machine was being towed in, the hitch broke, and this jinxed truck tried to end it all forever by rolling down a hill and over an embankment.
Not our problem anymore. All we had to do was have the horses delivered. One was a sexy palomino, and the other a snappy stepping little pinto. I have always felt that a horse name should have an appropriate meaning. For the round and firmly packed banana colored blond, I picked Chiquita, which also honored our start for Mexico, as in Spanish it means little girl. For the Canadian end of our journey, all we could think of was a French-Canadian word for tiny, so the Pinto became, Petite.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia