05-02-2018, 08:11 PM
I bought my horse from a man in Arkansas in 1855. The man was a judge and horse trader who had just been elected to Congress, and he was selling off his property and livestock to move his wife and eight young'uns to Washington, D.C.
I was astonished to learn the horse could not only talk, but had a wicked sense of humor to boot. The novelty of a talking horse wore off after awhile, and I was thankful to have someone to converse with on those long, lonely rides across the wild frontier. Years later, on a steamboat journey up the Mississippi, I would meet the person responsible for the horse's unique abilities.
Me and my horse struck out for the wide open West from Arkansas to seek our fortune. We dabbled in a little bit of everything, with modest success. My horse was an Indian agent and fur trapper at various points, while I worked mostly as a guard on Wells-Fargo coaches hauling gold and silver from the mines in the West to the relative safety of the big banks further east. We were both deputy sheriffs for a few months down in Arizona.
One day as I was transferring a shipment of gold from the coach to a monorail bound for Fort Knox, a voice from behind me said, "Put your hands in the air and don't move."
I did as the voice instructed. I had heard that command many a time in my line of work, but this time something was different. It was a woman's voice. I caught a glimpse of her face reflected in the window of the depot. A bandana covered the lower part of her face, but I recognized her, all right. I had seen that face on "wanted" posters all over the territory.
It was the face of Cream of Caulk.
I was astonished to learn the horse could not only talk, but had a wicked sense of humor to boot. The novelty of a talking horse wore off after awhile, and I was thankful to have someone to converse with on those long, lonely rides across the wild frontier. Years later, on a steamboat journey up the Mississippi, I would meet the person responsible for the horse's unique abilities.
Me and my horse struck out for the wide open West from Arkansas to seek our fortune. We dabbled in a little bit of everything, with modest success. My horse was an Indian agent and fur trapper at various points, while I worked mostly as a guard on Wells-Fargo coaches hauling gold and silver from the mines in the West to the relative safety of the big banks further east. We were both deputy sheriffs for a few months down in Arizona.
One day as I was transferring a shipment of gold from the coach to a monorail bound for Fort Knox, a voice from behind me said, "Put your hands in the air and don't move."
I did as the voice instructed. I had heard that command many a time in my line of work, but this time something was different. It was a woman's voice. I caught a glimpse of her face reflected in the window of the depot. A bandana covered the lower part of her face, but I recognized her, all right. I had seen that face on "wanted" posters all over the territory.
It was the face of Cream of Caulk.
