Week of the Wild Horse by Pauline Burgess (posted by Debz)

When I decided to write a story to submit to the Born Free anthology I was a little stuck at first. Which animal would I choose? In what way would the animal be captive, and how would it finally be released? Quite literally I lay awake thinking about it, until one morning at around 3.00AM I turned to my snoring husband and said “It’s got to be a horse! An Indian horse!” Needless to say he made no reply, but I’m proud of that moment of ‘enlightenment’ because of course it led to my story ‘Delivered’ being chosen for this wonderful book.

It was obvious really when I reflected on my choice. I’d spent most of my childhood begging my father to buy me a horse. He was a farmer with land so it seemed a pretty reasonable request to me. Apparently he was about to capitulate when I was roughly fifteen years old, but then he realised I was off to youth clubs with friends, experimenting with make-up and thinking about the opposite sex. He soon realised he would be the one left looking after the horse – and I suppose he was right!

Why a Native American horse you might ask? Well, I suppose that comes down to my dad too. Night after night he watched Western films and soon I became engrossed too. The idea of the ‘Wild West’ made me curious and it’s something that stayed with me, so I tried to write a ‘Western’ story – I hope you all feel that I’ve done the genre justice!

Here is a sneak preview:

The cool night smoke filled the young pinto with calm and he began to breathe more easily. Encircled by the black velvet fortress of the mountains, the details all around dwarfed him; the trunks and branches of the tall pine trees, the dark sky lightening to silver on the mountaintop. He moved freely now, divested of his saddle and his rider digging his spurs into his sides to make him go faster. Always faster. He saw a ravine below and made his way steadily downwards, sniffing out the prospect of water. His ears were alert, waiting for instruction, but none came. No gruff voice ordering which way to turn, to run, to stop. Just the flurry of curled branches and the ripple of mountain grass.
That day in April, some six months ago, he had been running with the rest of the team of wild horses. It was strange that they hadn’t seen the men coming. Before they knew it they were being chased by Morgans and thoroughbreds and choked with lassoes, gasping and baying pointlessly as the cowboys tightened their control. They were pulled and dragged across the plains for days, nervous and terrified. They’d been given no water. No mercy.
They had reached a settlement and the young pinto, blinded by panic, kicked and reared up, sweat breaking out on him all over. His eyes were wild and fixed on the open gate through which he’d come, but the men cussed him and whipped him until he could buck no more.

Copyright Pauline Burgess, Bridge House Publishing, Gentle Footprints

Tomorrow The Pinto in the Wild West