Bringing Glory Home

Greetings from Domelandia,

We had another great Christmas with the family here. Our little granddaughter was fascinated with the horses. I lifted her onto Glory's back and held her there as the old horse placidly finished her alfalfa breakfast.

Glory Dun is a part of our family. She's been with us since that gorgeous autumn day in 1979 when The Viking and I borrowed a neighbor's pickup and headed off to the LaJunta sale barn to buy a horse.

I remember that day, and the sound of meadow larks, and the sense of adventure that possessed us. I'd had a horse when I was growing up in Texas. I missed riding and caring for a horse, so I was excited at the prospect of getting a young horse and training it to be my gentle companion.

We'd heard that some of the horses were bought and broke to work cattle. Gentle, older horses were purchased as 'kid' horses, and some went to the meat packing companies. Those horses were injured, old, or believed to be too wild to be of any use. The mares in this group often had foals at their sides. We knew the meat packers had no use for these little ones--they didn't weigh much--and that they could be bought for very little money. That was about how much money we had, and we hoped it was enough to buy a foal.

We found the auction barn, walked in, and registered as official bidders. We found seats close to the round arena and waited for the auction to begin. The smells of the concession stand mixed with odors of manure, sawdust, and the unmistakable aroma of horse. Underlying that normally sweet and sweaty smell was also the smell of fear, though I didn't recognize it right away.

The clomp and scuff of boots echoed off the building's metal roof as buyers came in and sat down. Faces shadowed by stained Stetsons, ranchers shifted their wads of chew to say howdy to friends. Spittoons were provided, but evidence of faulty aim littered the floor, and cigarette smoke hung in the air.

The auctioneer sat at a table on a raised platform across from the buyers. He said the horses would be sold individually or in lots, depending on how the owners wanted them shown, and he'd be giving us a description of what we were looking at as they came in. He introduced us to the wrangler, whose job it was to drive the horses into the ring, point out any injuries, and to keep them moving so the buyers could have a good look at them. The side of his face bore the deep imprint of a hoof, eloquently illustrating the chancy nature of his job.

The best horses came first, mostly under saddle, ridden by their owners. Some of these folks had fallen on hard times and needed money--it was easy to see they were unhappy and I felt sorry for them.

The bidding began. The auctioneer spoke in a foreign language, punctuated with staccato acknowledgements when he saw a wave or nod from the crowd. Some of the sellers accepted the offered price, some didn't, and the sale continued.

Injured horses were sold next. One horse hobbled in on three legs--the fourth dangled uselessly. He dragged himself painfully for a few steps and gave up, his head down and his sides heaving. I felt the blood leave my face, and my stomach rolled over. The auctioneer drawled, "Well, boys, we know where he's headed," and the meat packer make his first purchase of the day.

Soon the mares with foals were driven in. If they had good breeding and confirmation, they were sold together. It was apparent that many of them had never been touched--manes were thick with burrs, ribs could be counted--and their terrified whinnies filled the arena. One group came and went. Then the wrangler opened the gate and a wild black mare galloped in, a tiny steel-gray filly at her side. My eyes filled with tears, and I knew she was my horse.

The bidding started at $25. In my excitement I bid against myself a couple of times before the auctioneer told me, "hold on a minute, sis." I couldn't tell which person I was bidding against, anyway. I was crying too hard. Then the bidding reached $45 - my $45!! - and the filly was mine. It was time to get the heck out of that place and get my horse safely home.

Money changed hands, paperwork was signed, and before long I was backing the truck to the loading ramp. The filly was there, scared out of her mind, and looking for her mother. It took two grown men to hold her still long enough to get a halter on her and to wrestle her into the back of the truck.

At this point, I had a rude awakening. The image I'd had of a tiny, helpless foal who would obligingly stand or lie down in the back of the truck was a fantasy. She was only a couple of months old, but amazingly strong. She reared up, plunged forward, and leapt neatly out of the truck. It's a miracle she didn't break a leg-or two. More grown men appeared and got her back into the truck. They got her down onto her side, and The Viking positioned himself on top of her and held her down. This method seemed to work, so we started home.

The return trip was a harrowing experience. At times the filly would seem to relax, but if The Viking loosened his hold, she felt it immediately and began thrashing around. The blanket we'd carefully installed as a windbreak and sun shield snapped and popped in the wind, and we had to stop and take it down. Those 100 miles were some of the longest I've ever driven. The Viking was tired, and from time to time I could see him being tossed around in the truck bed, struggling to keep the filly down. I gritted my teeth, said a prayer, and drove on.

At last, we drove into Trinidad. Just another 20 miles or so and we'd be home! The filly appeared to be worn out, and as we drove through town, we were both thinking of getting her settled, getting our supper, and tending to the Viking's bruises. We breathed premature sighs of relief.

At a stop sign in downtown Trinidad, a policeman suddenly stepped in front of our truck, raised his hand, and blew his whistle, indicating we were to stay put. Then the Trinidad High School Homecoming Parade of 1979, complete with majorettes, cheerleaders, and band, marched by right in front of the truck. The horse and The Viking started jumping together again, this time to the rousing tune of the Miner's Fight Song.

Half an hour later, we were all home in one piece, bruised, tired, and grateful.

We know now how unprepared we were and how fortunate we were that nobody got hurt. We've done quite a few things through the years that weren't supposed to work, but more often than not, we got some luck and lived to tell the tale.

The foal grew into a beautiful gray horse. Steady and willing, she taught our daughters to ride, and carried them on her back for many years. She has plenty to eat, some horse friends, and lots of room. She's been able to live as horses were intended - free to wander the hills. She's achieved the ripe old age of 31 years - a good long life for a well-loved friend.