Wild Horse Rider

By Rick Steber

"Lew Minor was a bronc-buster who chased wild horses across the vast reaches of Nevada, a buckaroo who rode rough-string and broke cavalry remounts, and a cowboy star who won rodeos throughout the West and Canada. He toured the nation with the famous Kit Carson Wild West Show as the featured attraction and won the world champion bronc rider belt buckle at the 1912 Pendleton Round-Up.

Years were spent chasing an elusive dream - finding the best bucking horse over the next ridge - until a rodeo accident forced Lew's retirement. He settled down near his birthplace and passed the years hunting, fishing and running a few head of cattle.

At age 93 Lew was inducted into the Round-Up Hall of Fame and for a fleeting moment he once again basked in the warm accolades, and then they faded and he was home again with only memories to sustain him. He was a throwback - a bronc buster trapped in the space age - forgotten and friendless except for the companionship of one man who refused to allow the legend o of Lew Minor ro die.
"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rick Steber
• Release date: Dec 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301654949

Rick Steber

"The best of Western literature". Each of Rick Steber's books is both an exciting western adventure and historical chronicle. Rich in variety and content, readers feel the compelling dramas revealed through the eyes of the characters. They define the dynamics of western life in a fashion no other author has been able to attain.

Book preview

Wild Horse Rider

Rick Steber

~~~

Smashwords Edition

Two Star, An imprint of Bonanza Publishing

P.O. Box 204, Prineville, OR 97754

Illustrations by Don Gray

Copyright © 1984 Rick Steber. All Rights Reserved.

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Wild Horse Rider

Rick Steber

Chapter 1

Light pushed dark.

The tips of the Seven Devils Mountains gradually accepted the glow of the moon and at Hells Canyon the moving line of light jumped from one rim to the other without ever touching the free flowing Snake River, a mile below. A few wispy clouds, shredded by the granite peaks of the rugged Wallowa Mountains, began to blush a delicate salmon pink that lingered for a moment, and changed with the emergence of the moon to a chilly ice-blue. Ice-blue reflected downward off the snowfields to reflect on the surface of the moraine lake and beyond to light the skinny Wallowa Valley running north-south.

A horned owl, perching in a towering pine, shifted its weight and pushed off. The first few wing beats were audible, then silence. Field mice scampered to hide from the passing shadow. There was another rustle of wind – more an impression of feathers stroking the air – and the owl landed in a fir tree outlined by the rising moon. The owl spoke four distinct notes, the first two in rapid succession and the others drawn and hard edged. The booming voice filled the open landscape that was ripe with the rich aromas of wet earth, blooming camas and wildflowers.

Jennie Minor heard the voice of the owl, weaving through the timber and drifting across the meadow to the cabin, and for a moment that distracted her. But the contractions in her lower abdomen began once again, this time more intense, urgent. Beads of sweat appeared on the delicate blonde hairs of Jennie’s upper lip. The rhythmic tick of a mantle clock counted time. Once again the contractions eased and through it all the midwife, a neighbor woman, sat passively in a chair beside the bed. Jennie squirmed, cried out in pain from between clenched teeth, and this propelled the midwife to dab a washrag in a pan of water, and gently wiped it across Jennie’s brow.

At the apex of the moon’s broad arc, light poured through the distorted pane of glass in the west-facing window, illuminating the stark white of the sweat soaked sheet and reflecting off the dresser’s oval mirror; bouncing around the room to reveal four chairs pulled tight to a table, a dull-black cook stove and a row of pots and pans hanging from nails driven in the header log. From time to time clouds passed over the moon and cast intermittent shadows on the cabin and the bald-faced hill tucked behind. A scant wind came alive and the tall grass on the hillside shimmied while a band of unnoticed horses grazed over the crown and down the cabin side. The eastern sky began to color and birds came alive, chirping merrily. The contractions came, and lessened. The midwife waited.

Jennie’s husband, William, had been sitting in his rocking chair through the long night. He finally rose and the creaking of his rocking chair continued, slowed and ceased altogether. He moved to the bed and stood beside Jennie. He spoke in a soothing tone, You’ll be all right, he assured her. Best do chores. I’ll open the window. If you need me I’ll hear.

William raised the latch and pushed open the window. He stood for a moment noticing the mountains as he did, saying, Mountains look especially beautiful, so bright and fresh, this morning. He hesitated. Jennie, the baby will come when it wants. Save your strength for then.

William closed the door solidly behind him. He drew a deep breath of fresh air and filled his lungs with the fragrance of morning. He exhaled and built-up tensions flowed through his neck and cascaded off his shoulders. He told himself this was a good day for a baby to be born, and he started in the direction of the barn, knocking dew from the grass with his boots, milk pails swinging at the ends of his arms.

On the hillside behind the cabin, the wild horses came alert. The stallion, a big strawberry roan, moved to position himself between his mares and the only sign of civilization for miles, the log cabin and barn. His eyes followed William across the barn lot until he disappeared inside. When there was no more movement, the horses returned to grazing.

William finished chores and emerged from the barn, noticing the startling quiet, as if the world was drawing a long, lingering breath. Noises returned. The barn door slammed shut. A meadowlark sitting on a corral post suddenly twirled a simple melody. Blackbirds called raucously back and forth in the willows. And then a new-born cry split the air. William dropped the milk pails and sprinted toward the cabin. Milk drained and was absorbed by the thirsty soil.

The stallion on the hill snorted angrily from flared nostrils, threw his head and chased his little band of mares, biting the rumps of the slowest. A line of dust hung suspended to mark where they had been as the golden sun peeked over the horizon.

On this date, Friday the 13th, July 1884, in Wallowa Valley, Oregon, Lewis Minor was born. The wild mustang was no longer without master.

Chapter 2

At one time, the Wallowa Valley sat at the bottom of a great inland sea, but gigantic upheavals thrust the mountains through the earth’s crust and the water receded. Grasses and trees germinated and began to grow. Salmon spawned in the free-flowing rivers. And a race of red-skinned people, the Nez Perce, came to inhabit the land.

William and Jennie Minor were among the first white settlers to arrive in the Wallowa Valley after the Indians had been forced away to live on reservations. The Minors claimed homestead land in a broad meadow near a spring, and built a log cabin facing the Wallowa Mountains. The mountains, snowcapped for most of the year, rose in an awesome sheer ascent beginning – it seemed – at the very doorstep of the cabin.

It was a cold February day in Lew Minor’s seventh month of life when Jennie left him alone, asleep on a blanket on the floor, to hurry to the spring for a bucket of water. The spring gushed into a crystalline pool, and even in winter, watercress grew there. Jennie dipped a bucket and bent again to break loose a few green clumps of watercress. As she shook moisture from the leaves she thought about the salad she would fix.

Jennie followed the trail through the snow to the door. The mountains called attention to themselves, their white bluntness etched against the steel blue sky. An icicle that had lived all winter on the eaves of the cabin lost its tenuous grip and crashed to the ground, shattering. Jennie pushed open the door and froze; motionless, horrorstruck. Lew was attempting to stand. He was teetering on the fireplace hearth.

Stop, Lew! she commanded.

At the sound of her voice Lew turned, lost his balance and pitched headlong into the orange flames. Jennie saved him, scooping him from the fire, and brushing away a live coal which had imbedded itself in the delicate skin of his forehead. Her baby whimpered but did not cry.

Chapter 3

William, wearing long underwear and wool socks, lit the oil lamp. He dressed and crossed the room to where Lew, now four years old, lay asleep on his cot. William took notice of his son’s big hands; the fingers long and thick like his own. The boy looked so content William almost hated to awaken him, but he did, gently and yet firmly he took Lew by the shoulders and shook him. Lew struggled to open his eyes and his tongue licked over dry lips.

Time to get a move on; can’t be sleeping the day away, not if you’re going hunting with me, announced William.

For the past several months William had been promising to take Lew hunting one of these days. That day had finally arrived. Lew slipped out of bed and started pulling on clothes, saving time by stuffing a flannel shirt inside his trousers without bothering to unbuckle his belt.

William reached high above his head to remove the Winchester rifle from its spot on the set of antlers tacked to the wall. He opened the door, stepped outside and started down the trail leading to the barn. Lew was his shadow, following closely behind. William instructed, Remember, stay quiet and close, but not too close. I don’t want you stepping on my heels.

The large man and the small boy passed the barn and cut diagonally across the meadow toward a prominent finger of timber. Lew exaggerated his stride trying to place his feet exactly in his father’s footsteps, and had to stretch to do it. They were almost to the dark canopy of the forest; William was imagining a deer struggling to its feet from a bed beneath a fir tree, when his fantasy was interrupted by Lew stumbling and stubbing his toe on a rock. William turned, spoke in an earnest whisper. Watch it. Be quiet now.

They entered the shelter of the trees. William paused, looked and listened intently. Lew took the opportunity to backhand his runny nose with the sleeve of his coat. William moved again, lumbering like a bear, cautiously choosing where he stepped but not conscious of it. He was a big man of uncommon strength. A drooping eyelid gave his face a stern look of uncompromising determination. He moved forward. Lew followed.

The floor of the forest smelled heavy and damp with toadstools, mushrooms and pine needle duff. And then it happened. Lew took his eyes off the trail for only an instant, and in that instant he stepped on a dry twig and it cracked like a rifle shot.

From somewhere ahead came the distinctive thump-thump-thump of a deer going out. William dropped to one knee. A doe stopped and looked over her shoulder, curious and unafraid. William’s rifle recoiled and barked instantaneously. A bullet splattered on a rock outcropping directly in front of the doe. Before another shot was fired, Lew had flung himself on his father’s back, pleading, No, Papa, no! Please don’t shoot the pony.

The deer disappeared and William moved to administer a strong dose of discipline, but seeing his son’s distress, he relented. Effortlessly he raised Lew to eye level. Patiently he explained, Son, I know you have a fondness for horses, but not every animal you see is a horse or a pony. That was a deer. We needed the meat for our dinner table.

Chapter 4

Lew anxiously watched his mother press five small, tallow-dipped candles into a chocolate cake still warm from the oven. She lit the wicks and turned to the table while light from the flickering flames played across her face. As she set the cake in front of Lew, William reached under his chair, slid out a package and placed it on the table. Lew’s eyes widened. He had wanted a pair of cowboy boots so badly; and the box seemed about the right size. He picked it up; and about the right weight. For the moment the chocolate cake was forgotten. He started to open his present.

Just a minute, Lewis, reprimanded Jennie. First you have to make a wish and blow out your candles.

Lew took a quick gulp of air, unleashed a miniature windstorm he directed at the candles, and while five smokes drifted and curled, he tore open the box and stared at his first pair of cowboy boots, copper colored with a red star inset on the uppers. They were the most beautiful boots Lew had ever seen.

The next morning Lew awoke early. He was excited because he could not only wear his boots the entire day, but also he and his father were going to brand the calves. It would be Lew’s job to keep the branding fire hot.

Lew stood in the center of the corral, wood smoke swirling around him. On a sudden impulse, to see what it would be like if he used tobacco, he drew a breath of the pungent smoke, only to choke. He coughed. His eyes stung and watered. It was then and there that Lew decided he would never acquire the habit of smoking.

Get it hot, called William. Lew tossed a few pitch knots on the coals, and when they caught fire, he laid the branding iron across it. William waded into the herd of milling cattle swinging a lariat. He threw the loop and it snaked out, settling over the head of a calf. William stood his ground and reeled in the calf like it was a big catfish on a hand line. When the little bull was standing spraddle-legged in front of him, William reached around, grabbed a flank and flipped the calf upside down. With his knee he pinned the fighting calf to the ground.

The iron, he commanded. Lew brought him the branding iron and stood watching as red metal touched brown hide and a flash of fire singed the hair. Lew wrinkled his nose involuntarily at the stench of burning hair and hide but watch he did, absorbing the action and coolly learning the process of laying on a good, distinct brand. William handed back the iron, reached in his pocket for his jackknife, opened it with one hand, slit the bull calf’s scrotum in a quick half-moon slice and scooped out the testicles and dropped them into a Mason jar. After the work was finished, they would cook the Rocky Mountain oysters in a fry pan over the branding fire coals.

Instead of turning this newly-made steer loose, William allowed the animal to gain its feet and held him while telling Lew, Hop on, son. Give a ride.

Lew straddled the calf. His father let go, and as soon as he did the calf commenced bucking. Natural instinct told Lew to dig his red star boot heels into the calf’s ribs, and for a few exhilarating seconds he was riding, but then the calf bucked him off onto the hard, dusty surface of the corral. It took a moment for his senses to catch up, and when they did, Lew felt a sharp pain in his elbow. He spit out a mouthful of dirt.

Lew found himself trapped between the mother cow and her calf. The cow dropped white-tipped horns and started a swift charge that was stopped just short of Lew by William stepping forward and giving the cow a whack across the bridge of her nose with the stiff lariat. She whirled, stood a short distance away pawing the ground and bellowing until her calf found her.

You okay? asked William, coming to give Lew a hand up.

Lew’s elbow was bleeding from a small cut. He still had not regained his breath but he rasped, Catch him for me, will ya, Pa? I want to ride again.

That night, long after he should have fallen asleep, Lew was awake reliving the scene in the corral and the sensations of riding the bucking calves: the loose skin shifting under his tight grip, the contractions and explosions of the animals’ muscles, his sense of weightlessness and above all else the thrill and exhilaration of pitting himself against an animal and riding until it quit bucking.

Chapter 5

Joseph, Chief of the Wallowa band of the Nez Perce Indians, led a small group of men mounted on dark-bodied appaloosa ponies to the Minor homestead. Lew was in the hayloft when he first spotted them, calling to his father, Indians! William interrupted the evening milking and stepped outside. The Indians rode directly toward him.

William was inwardly surprised to see this delegation of Indians, and surprised even more to see Chief Joseph leading them. Since the war, the Nez Perce Indians had been confined to a reservation in Oklahoma, but lately there had been talk about transferring some members of the tribe to the Colville reservation in eastern Washington. William had not participant in the war and did not fear the Indians now.

You friend, said Joseph, carefully measuring each word. As he spoke to William he was aware of the boy at the window above. "Me, you, never have