The Storm Testament II by Lee Nelson

Author:Lee Nelson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cedar Fort Publishing & Media
Published: 2008-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

Exhausted and frustrated after a long, fruitless night of trying to segregate the horses, I headed back to the creek to get a little sleep. I knew that if I waited long enough the horses would segregate themselves without my help. The weaker horses would die first. With time, only the strongest animals, those I wanted for myself, would be alive. But I didn't like the idea of waiting around while so many beautiful animals died of thirst.

As I approached the creek I noticed that one of the horses I had let out during the night had died. A palomino yearling had apparently swallowed too much water too quickly. It was on its side at the edge of the creek, bloated, its legs stiff and straight, hundreds of flies covering its eyes, nose, and mouth. I moved upstream to a grassy spot under the branches of a big oak tree, and by the time the sun came up I was sound asleep.

I don't know how long I slept, but I was awakened by the squawking of dozens of birds—jays, magpies, black hawks, and even a couple of red-necked buzzards—all fighting over the remains of the palomino yearling. The biggest buzzard moved about the horse at will, tearing off a piece of flesh here and there, holding his head high every time he gulped down a bite of breakfast. If the smaller buzzard got in his way, he squawked for it to move. If it was in the middle of tearing away a bite and failed to respond, the big bird stood tall and began to spread his wings in a threatening gesture as if he were preparing to attack. Whenever this happened, the other bird quickly forgot its business and got out of the way. The hawks milled about just outside an imaginary circle, one occasionally streaking in for a quick bite when the buzzards were occupied elsewhere. Beyond the circle of hawks the magpies and jays fluttered about, one occasionally darting in to steal a little piece of flesh. The pecking order was clear and distinct. There was plenty of meat for all, but there was no sharing among the selfish birds.

I had just finished a breakfast of beef jerky, a hard biscuit, and several dried peaches—provisions the Army had given me upon leaving Mission San Diego—when the fighting of the birds over the dead horse gave me a sudden idea, an idea that just might enable me to segregate out the horses I didn't want and get to work taming and training the bay and sorrel.

I hurried into the meadow, gathered a large armload of the golden wild oat grass, and threw it over the log fence into the corral at the point furthest from the gate. As I suspected, the horses were too thirsty to be interested in the hay.

Then, picking up a short, stout stick with a somewhat pointed end, I crawled through the gate and began scratching out a shallow hole.

The hole was on

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