Wild Stallions by Regina McLemore

It was the half-grown, half-dead mustang that got to him. Up until that day he had grudgingly obeyed the sergeant’s orders, but when he was told, “Gotta shoot that one,” he felt something new rise up in his gut.

“Why?”

“’Cause he’s goin’ to die, anyway. Ain’t eatin’ enough. Only one of that wild herd we brought in to do that. But never mind the reason. Just take him out, put a bullet in his skull, then kick him down the ravine. The coyotes and vultures will take care of the rest.”

The sergeant took a shiny revolver from the worn belt that squeezed his big belly.

“You can use my gun, but you better bring it back. There will be hell to pay if you should lose it. Savvy?”

“I savvy.”

“You know you and that horse kinda remind me of each other. Both a bag of young, ugly bones and pert near black.”

Grinning big, he gave Ky a shove that knocked him to his knees.

Bastard!

“And don’t be givin’ me that look! That look’s goin’ to get your head blowed off one of these days. Maybe I better send somebody with you to keep an eye on you. Stop by the commissary and tell Hernandez I said to get a couple of mules and ride with you to the ravine. He may be a sorry Mexican, but he’s dependable.”

Ky got up, shoving the gun into the belt that barely kept his pants up on his skinny hips. He didn’t mind Hernandez. He, the cook, and the general were the only ones who didn’t give him constant hell. Ky’s body was covered with bruises that resulted from “accidental” pokes, shoves, and kicks from the sergeant and his fellow soldiers.

But the abuse wasn’t just physical. They wouldn’t even call him by the name the missionaries gave him, John. The sergeant changed his name to Ky—short for Kiowa—the day the commander agreed to give him a place to stay and food to eat if he would join the cavalry. That was two years ago when Ky had just turned fourteen and decided he was fed up with the Mission and its endless rules. He had run away in the middle of the night and kept running for three days. By the time he stumbled upon Fort Dodge, he was weak and starved down. He was willing to do anything for a plate of food and a place to sleep.

The sergeant voiced his disapproval of the general’s decision several times. “Craziest thing I ever heard of, acceptin’ a half-breed Kiowa into the ranks! We ain’t that hard up for men, and I don’t care what anybody says, I ain’t issuin’ you a rifle. Not when we’re surrounded by dirty Kiowas just like you, itchin’ for a chance to murder every one of us and all the folks in Dodge City.”

Ky found the cook peeling potatoes for the noon meal. He acknowledged Ky’s greeting with a curt nod and went back to his task.

“If you’re lookin’ for Hernandez, he ain’t here. Probably in the outhouse, purgin’ his guts from the rot gut whisky he got into last night. Told him to stay out of the sergeant’s sight today, or he would get another beatin’.”

“What am I supposed to do? Sergeant told me to take him with me to kill a horse.”

Sighing deeply, the cook looked up to meet Ky’s eyes. “Can you do it yourself?”

“Guess so.”

“Well, what the sergeant don’t know won’t hurt him, and it will probably save you and Hernandez both a beatin’. Just get it done and get back as soon as you can.”

The cook held out two cold biscuits. “Here. Boys like you are always hungry. Put some of that sugar you stole from the table on them, and they’ll make you a tasty bite. You know I had a boy like you once before the fever got him.”

Ky wrapped the biscuits up in a bandana he had in his pocket. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Say, before you leave, let an old man give you some advice. First good chance you get, leave this place. There ain’t no future for you here, and the sergeant is goin’ to kill you one of these days. All he sees is your skin color, and he hates all Indians. Heard tell his family was wiped out by Kiowas when he was just a little feller. That ain’t no excuse for his behavior, but it explains why he does what he does. As for the others, they just do what he tells them to do. Just give it some thought.”

“I’ll do that.”

Ky walked back to the stall where the horse still lay. When he clicked his tongue, it raised its head before lying back down.

“Come here.”

The stallion eyeballed him but didn’t move.

Then he remembered their common origin. Ky hadn’t spoken his mother tongue since before he was carried off to the mission school when he was only eight. His mother had loved him, even though his father had been a white trader. She had cried when the soldiers carried him off, along with three other children.

He cried, too, his first night at the Mission. He stopped when a big boy called him, “Baby,” and gave him his first beating. It was the first of several until he learned to keep his tears and feelings to himself.

Ky shook his head to clear it. Finally, he remembered himself as little, riding behind his grandfather on a big black horse. What did he call it?

“Tsan!”

The stallion scrambled to his feet and tentatively approached him.

Reaching into his pants’ pocket, Ky pulled out the bandana.

“I had a feelin’ you was a tsan of the Kiowa and once belonged to them, just like me. Here, have some sugar. Might as well leave the world with a little sweet in your mouth.”

The mustang gobbled down the sugar and looked up for more.

“Sorry, that’s all I got.”

For a half-dead horse, the stallion put up a tremendous fight. Even when he was tied to a strong mule and on his way to the ravine, the mustang kicked and whipped his head around.

When they got to the edge, Ky stopped and looked at the stallion before untying him.

He reached down and plucked some new spring clover and offered it from his hand. The mustang ignored him.

“Come on, Tsan. It tastes real good.”

The horse’s right ear flicked at the familiar word. He bent down and sniffed before taking a bite. Once he got a taste, he gobbled the sweet grass down.

Ky chuckled and patted the silky neck. “Why don’t I let you get your fill?’

Grazing steadily, the mustang permitted Ky to stroke his nose, neck, and shoulders.

“You know what, boy? I don’t think you’re dyin’. I think you’re just sad because you miss bein’ with your own people.”

Sighing, he took out the revolver. “Still, I gotta work if I’m goin’ to eat.”

Ky stepped back from the grazing horse and aimed. His finger was on the trigger when the mule let out a loud bray.

Whirling around, he heard another sound, the deadly song of a timber rattler. The mustang jerked the rope from his hand, aimed his right hoof at the snake, and neatly decapitated it with one blow.

“Well, I’ll be! Thanks, Tsan. I owe you one. Trouble is I can’t go back to the fort without doin’ the job they gave me. That would give them an excuse to beat me to death, and they would. Nobody would stop them from killin’ a skinny Kiowa kid, and both of us will be layin’ in the ravine.”

Ky shivered. He bent down, picked up the rope, and drew the horse to him. In a few seconds, it would all be over.

Tsan nickered and butted Ky’s hand with his head.

“Careful. It might go off.”

He put away the gun. As he stroked his fetlock, Ky examined Tsan’s form. Except for being bony, the mustang looked sound. His mind replayed the cook’s words. “First good chance you get, leave this place.”

“Will you trust me, Tsan? There might be a way we can all get out of this alive.”

The stallion balked as he tied him back to the mule. “Sorry. If you will just put up with it for a while, I promise I will take you to a safe place. We’ll go back to our people. I have heard about where some of them still live. It’s not too far. They’ll be glad to see you for sure, and maybe, they will put up with me if I bring you, a mule, and a gun as presents.”

A couple of hours later, the mule suddenly let out a loud bray, and Tsan jerked his head nervously. Ky stopped riding and concentrated on listening. “They’re comin’. We’re goners unless we get real lucky.”

He galloped off the trail until he found a small hill to hide behind. He stroked the mule’s fetlock and whispered in Tsan’s ear. “Hush now.”

He held his breath as he heard the hoofbeats thunder on down the trail. Ky waited a few minutes until he thought it was safe to come out.

Just as he resumed riding on the trail, an arrow whizzed by his ear. He cried out and pulled off again.

Hiding amongst the brush, Ky caught sight of a lone rider a few yards away, loaded bow in hand, aiming for his head. A forgotten word materialized out of nowhere.

Ky cried out a greeting, “Hacho!”

The Indian lowered his bow and replied, “Hacho?”

Ky dismounted and lay his gun on the ground. He used sign language to convey his surrender.

The big man chuckled. “I know English, so just tell me who you are and what you’re doin’ in soldier clothes.”

Ky wiped his brow. “Thank God! I thought sure you was goin’ to kill me. I am Kiowa, but I was stolen away from my people when I was young and taken to a mission. I have been livin’ and workin’ at Fort Dodge for two years. I had no choice. It was join the cavalry or starve to death.”

“So, who do you choose now?”

“I choose the Kiowa. I was on my way to their camp when the soldiers almost caught me.”

The Kiowa picked up the revolver. “Nice gift. We better be goin’ before the soldiers figure out what you did and come back.”

Ky grinned. “Thank you, my friend.”

The Indian smirked. “Who said we are friends? For now, you are my prisoner. We’ll see what the others say.”

“That’s all right. I’d rather take my chances with you than a bunch of soldiers who hate me.”

They took a long, circuitous path away from the beaten trail. They only stopped once to water the horses and mule. The Kiowa took some buffalo jerky from his saddlebags. then handed a portion to Ky.

He acknowledged Ky’s thanks with a grunt and scanned his form with his dark eyes.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen. Why do you ask?”

He grabbed Ky’s chin and raised it so that he could stare directly into his eyes. “I ask the questions. Not you. You’re part white?”

“Yes, my father was a white trader.”

“Too bad for you.”

“I never knew him. My mother raised me to be a Kiowa.”

“I know. That is the only reason I let you live. Time to go.”

It was twilight when they neared the Kiowa camp. They were met by an armed guard who ignored Ky as he greeted his companion with a clap on the shoulder.

The two men talked and laughed together as they rode into the camp, with Ky following on the mule. They rode on ahead, taking the mustang with them.

Ky was soon surrounded by a group of jeering women and children. One of the tallest of the women jerked him off the mule and threw him to the ground. She and her companions laughed as they tore off his uniform and boots. Once Ky tried to get away but was soon overwhelmed by the crush of the crowd.

In a few minutes, he found himself lying on the ground, shivering in his small clothes. Were they goin’ to kill him now?

A sharp cry rang out, and a thin, middle-aged woman appeared by his side. Throwing a buffalo robe over him, her dark eyes flashed as she motioned for the other women to back off.

She leaned over until her forehead was touching his. Then she whispered, “Son.”

Ky had made it home.

Regina McLemore is a retired educator and librarian whose familial research inspired both her fiction and nonfiction writing. Family stories, including her grandmother’s experiences at a Cherokee mission/boarding school and historical events, are all reflected in her “Cherokee Passages” series of young ddult novels, the first of which won a Will Rogers Medallion Award in the Western Fiction for Young Readers category in 2021. McLemore’s writing portfolio is a diverse one, however. Not only is she a staff member and regular contributor to Saddlebag Dispatches, she has written many nonfiction articles for newspapers, magazines, journals, newsletters, and anthologies throughout Oklahoma and the Southeastern United States. She has also written three children’s books as well as a historical account of the Cherokee tribe. When she is not writing, she enjoys volunteering for the Adair County Historical and Genealogical Association in her hometown, traveling with her husband, Dennis, playing with her cats and dog, and visiting her family members and friends.