Wintering ~ Page 145
My task was to be easier. All BJ and I had to do was catch No-Name, load him in the back of a pick-up that had an open stock rack, and drive 500 miles before that old range horse could kick out the sides. Next time, I'll take a trailer.
This truck happened to be the same make, model, and color of the pick-up that had committed suicide by throwing a rod the year before. I drove with rapt attention to any new sound the motor made. This task was made easier by No-Name. Out of fright, he smashed in the rear window.
Every time we went under an overpass this spooky horse ducked from the shadow, and made us wobble. Every time a diesel rig passed, he would take a kick at the tailgate, and soon it was in pieces. And when a driver honked to draw my attention to what was happening in back—I knew too well—No-Name had one too many temper tantrums, and the rear wheel of the truck fell off.
Actually, it was the axle sliding out from the rear end. We immediately dropped down on the rear bumper. The wheel shot clear across the freeway to the median strip. No-Name was so shocked at what he had done that he stood with four feet planted solid, and this saved our lives. He easily could have turned us over right into traffic by panicking. I was able to maintain control by gouging a long trench in the pavement, and just barely pulled off to the side of the road before we ground (literally) to a halt.
"Everything definitely will be different this year," I told myself. With my trail training, I decided to take just one step at a time. I sent BJ back up the freeway, walking, to find a garage with a wrecker. If we could get the truck off the road, sell the horse, we could hitchhike the rest of the way.
By the time I got No-Name unloaded, a semi pulled over to ask where I had been headed.
"California."
"Put your horse in back."
"Where?"
Turned out that this was a rig designed for hauling race horses from track to track. To make a good story better, BJ showed up with a mechanic that had a face even a bank president could trust. I turned over the keys of the truck with instructions to call my other half-brother, Billy, to come to the rescue. And then, instead of having to push throughout the night so as to meet up with Bernice in the morning at Dicks' place, BJ and I ended up sleeping in a manger of the finest hay, headed our way at 65 miles per hour.
This truck happened to be the same make, model, and color of the pick-up that had committed suicide by throwing a rod the year before. I drove with rapt attention to any new sound the motor made. This task was made easier by No-Name. Out of fright, he smashed in the rear window.
Every time we went under an overpass this spooky horse ducked from the shadow, and made us wobble. Every time a diesel rig passed, he would take a kick at the tailgate, and soon it was in pieces. And when a driver honked to draw my attention to what was happening in back—I knew too well—No-Name had one too many temper tantrums, and the rear wheel of the truck fell off.
Actually, it was the axle sliding out from the rear end. We immediately dropped down on the rear bumper. The wheel shot clear across the freeway to the median strip. No-Name was so shocked at what he had done that he stood with four feet planted solid, and this saved our lives. He easily could have turned us over right into traffic by panicking. I was able to maintain control by gouging a long trench in the pavement, and just barely pulled off to the side of the road before we ground (literally) to a halt.
"Everything definitely will be different this year," I told myself. With my trail training, I decided to take just one step at a time. I sent BJ back up the freeway, walking, to find a garage with a wrecker. If we could get the truck off the road, sell the horse, we could hitchhike the rest of the way.
By the time I got No-Name unloaded, a semi pulled over to ask where I had been headed.
"California."
"Put your horse in back."
"Where?"
Turned out that this was a rig designed for hauling race horses from track to track. To make a good story better, BJ showed up with a mechanic that had a face even a bank president could trust. I turned over the keys of the truck with instructions to call my other half-brother, Billy, to come to the rescue. And then, instead of having to push throughout the night so as to meet up with Bernice in the morning at Dicks' place, BJ and I ended up sleeping in a manger of the finest hay, headed our way at 65 miles per hour.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia