Fire and Ice, continued...
I won a $189.60 bid for a thin Quarter Horse mare with good conformation, and her leggy colt, so young that he still dangled his umbilical cord. Forty-five dollars more got me a chestnut yearling pony. They ought to make a profit, I thought. Just give them groceries and training.
I rose from my seat in front of the sale ring and began walking toward the aisle. Just then, two wranglers shoved the yellow mustang mare into the ring. She stumbled, lurched, but managed to keep from falling. I thought of my girlfriend who had a stillborn baby and how we cried together. This mare’s unborn foal might never see the sun. I lifted my hand and the auctioneer called out, “Sold Carol, $60 dollar.”
It wasn’t easy getting the yellow mare into my stock trailer. I put a halter on her and pulled while a wrangler harried her from behind. An hour later we arrived home at Rattlesnake Acres. I was half surprised to see her still alive and standing.
I unloaded the two mares, the pony and colt into the quarantine corral. It was seventy-five feet square, with six-foot solid wood fences on the east and west to break the wind, and a fenced garden to the south. My home sheltered the north side. I could step out the living room door right into it. This access, or perhaps I should say exit, would soon turn out to be mighty handy.
I started the new horses on grass hay so they wouldn’t colic. The yellow mustang ate slowly, but she ate. Maybe she would live.
The next morning, the southwest wind rose to a gale. Sand sung through the air. I decided not to go to church. Not with that fragile mare in my care, and, Lord willing, a foal on the way. My boyfriend, Mike, came over and together we fixed up a 12x16-foot stall with deep straw, water and a pile of grass hay.
The yellow mare was now standing in the lee of the west fence, head low, tail to the sandstorm. I vowed to get her out of the stinging sand.
I haltered her and tried to lead her. She wouldn’t move. I picked up a front foot, placed it a few inches ahead. Mike pushed her rear until she shifted forward. I moved the diagonal hind foot and he shoved again. It was some seventy feet to the entrance of the barn. We took an hour to cover the distance. I could hardly believe that my city-bred boyfriend was willing to spend all that time getting sandpapered the windstorm. Another thirty feet and fifteen minutes in the aisle of the barn got her into her stall. As soon as I took off the halter, she lay down on her chest, lowered her head and rested her chin in the straw.
Mike and I went into the house and washed the grit off our faces.
He said, “How about my place for lunch?”
I thought it over. I hadn’t seen the mare having contractions. Her udder hadn’t waxed. Mustangs usually foal in the pre-dawn hours. “Sure.”
He replied, “I’ll check the mare first. Just in case.” He headed out the south door to the barn. In just seconds, he rushed back in. “Feet are sticking out.”
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